UNDER  THE  SKY  IN 
CALIFORNIA 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN 
CALIFORNIA 


BY 

CHARLES  FRANCIS  SAUNDERS 

Author  of  "The  Indians  of  the  Terraced  Houses," 
"A  Window  in  Arcady,"  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED  FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS 

MAINLY  BY 

C.  F.  and  E.  H.  SAUNDERS 


NEW  YORK 

McBRIDE,  NAST  &  COMPANY 
1913 


Copyright,    1913,    by 
,  NAST  &  Co. 


Published,  March,  1913 


DEDICATED 
TO 

THE  TENDERFOOT 

WHOM  CALIFORNIA  LOVES  TO  EDUCATE 


267439 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Acknowledgment  is  made  to  the 
Editors  of  Travel,  The  Church- 
man,  Country  Life  in  America 
and  the  Sunset  Magazine,  for 
their  permission  to  incorporate  in 
this  volume  portions  of  articles 
contributed  by  the  author  to  those 
magazines. 


PREFACE 

While  the  following  pages  touch  upon  some  mat- 
ters  with  which  the  tourist  who  travels  along  con- 
ventional lines  in  California  is  familiar,  the  main 
concern  of  the  author  lias  been  to  draw  attention 
to  an  immensity  of  almost  unexplored  mountain, 
desert,  canon  and  flowery  plain,  which  the  average 
tourist  sees — if  at  all — from  the  car  window.  This 
is  the  real  California;  and  but  for  man's  un- 
ceasing battle  with  Nature,  the  artificial  wonder- 
land of  palms  and  roses  and  orange  groves  which 
his  boundless  energy  and  patient  cultivation  have 
evoked,  would  relapse  almost  in  a  night  into  this 
wild,  majestic  solitude.  Like  all  genuine  things,  it 
has  the  compelling  charm  of  the  primitive  and  to 
the  lover  of  the  unartificial  it  appeals  with  fresh- 
ness and  power. 

Hunters  and  anglers,  forest-rangers  and  pros- 
pectors know  this  region ;  the  cowboy  and  the  miner 
know  it;  above  all,  the  Indian  knows  it,  and  when 
he  is  taken  from  it,  he  dies.  To  the  thousands  of 
travelers,  however,  who  yearly  visit  the  Golden 
State,  this  California  of  Nature's  doing  is  an  un- 
known country;  and  however  much  some  of  them 
might  wish  to  become  better  acquainted  with  it,  their 
mortal  frames,  accustomed  to  trains  de  luxe  and 
dining  cars,  would  be  absolutely  helpless  if  sub- 
jected to  the  rough  conditions  which  are  accepted 


PREFACE 

as  a  matter  of  course  by  the  miner,  the  cow-puncher 
or  the  iron-framed  camper. 

Yet  with  some  foreknowledge  of  how  to  go  about 
seeing  this  lesser-known  California,  the  task  is  not 
difficult  of  accomplishment  even  for  men  and  women 
of  delicate  frame  to  whom  some  daintiness  of  living 
is  inseparable  from  enjoyment.  This  book,  written 
out  of  the  personal  experience  of  man  and  wife  of 
very  limited  physical  strength,  is  designed  to  com- 
bine with  some  hint  of  the  beauties  and  interests 
which  lie  outside  the  regulation  sights,  certain  prac- 
tical directions  for  travelers  who  may  desire  with 
comfort  and  safety  to  taste  something  of  Cali- 
fornia's wilder  side. 


CONTENTS 


THE  DESERTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    INTRODUCTORY 1 

II    THE  MOJAVE 3 

III  THE   COLORADO  DESERT  OF  CALIFORNIA 19 

IV  Iw  PALM  CANON 31 

V    SPRING  FLOWERS  OF  THE  DESERT 41 

THE  MOUNTAINS 

I    UNDER  THE  STARS  AT  CROCKER'S 49 

II    CAMPING  IN  THE  YOSEMITE 63 

III  SUMMER  IN  THE  CANONS 71 

IV  AMONG  THE  ACORN  EATERS  OF  SAN  DIEGO  COUNTY  ...  78 

SPRING  DAYS  IN  A  CARRIAGE 

I  PRELIMINARIES  103 

II  CAMULOS,  THE  HOME  OF  RAMONA 105 

III  CAPISTRANO 110 

IV  RANCHO  SAN  FULANO 117 

V  SAN  Luis  REY,  GUAJOME  AND  PALA 125 

VI  THE  PRACTICAL  SIDE  OF  IT 134 

THE  FRANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

I    AFOOT  ON  THE  PADRES'  PATHWAY 140 

II    IN  THE  SANTA  BARBARA  BACK-COUNTRY .161 

WINTER  ON  THE  ISLE  OF  SUMMER 

I    UNEXPLORED    CATALINA 175 

II    AVALON  IN  WINTER 190 


CONTENTS 

TOURIST  TOWNS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    SAN  DIEGO  AND  SANTA  BARBARA 200 

II    TOURIST  TOWNS  OF  THE  ORANGE  BELT 212 

III     MONTEREY 223 

RESIDENCE  IN  THE  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE 

I    LIFE  IN  A  BUNGALOW 236 

II    MAKING  A  LIVING  IN  THE  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE  ....  246 
III    SOME  CALIFORNIANISMS 256 

CONCERNING  THE  CLIMATE 

I    THE    CLIMATE    IN    GENERAL     (with    specific    reference    to 

Southern   California) 262 

II    THE  INVALID  AND  THE  CLIMATE 275 

CAMP  COOKERY  FOR  THE  NON-PROFESSIONAL  CAMPER 

I    WHAT  OURS  is  NOT    (with  apologies  to  Mr.  Stewart  Ed- 
ward   White) 280 

II    THE   COMFORTS  OF   HOME  WHEN   CAMPING 282 

III  SOME  RECIPES  TO  FIT  THE  WILDS 287 

IV  THE   DUTCH   OVEN 295 

POSTSCRIPT .  299 


THE  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Hidden   Lake Frontispiece 

Facing  page 

The  desert  claiming  its  own 2 

At  the   desert's  edge 8 

Grotesque  tree  yuccas 15 

The  Colorado   Desert 20 

The     bisnaga 24 

The  Conchilla  Desert 29 

Dutch  Jake,  the  prospector 34 

Our  Conchilla  Desert  camp 42 

The  Palisades,  San  Jacinto  Mountain 47 

Our  camp  near  Crocker's 64 

A  camp  in  the  Yosemite .  64 

Long  Valley 74 

One  of  the  old-time  ranches .      .81 

A    San    Diego    home 88 

A  wayside  inn .  88 

San    Diego    Mission 96 

The  Night  of  the   Candles 96 

A  wagon,  a  good  team  and  a  camp  outfit 104 

Ramona's    home 108 

A  cattle  ranch 115 

Typical     California     valley 120 

San   Luis    Rey   Mission 126 

A  vineyard  In  winter 133 

Wandering  workmen 140 

Mission  San  Antonio  de  Padua 149 

At  Santa  Barbara  Mission 156 

The  bean   planter 161 

Santa  Ynez  Valley 168 


THE  ILLUSTBATIONS 

Facing  page 

Santa    YnSs    Mission 172 

The   hills   at  Avalon 176 

The    pier    at   Avalon 181 

Crescent  Beach 181 

Interior  of  Santa  Catalina 184 

The  beach  at  Santa  Catalina 188 

Avalon 192 

Golf  links  at  Avalon 197 

San    Gabriel        204 

The   Matilija    Cafion 209 

San  Juan  Capistrano  Mission 214 

The  patio  of  the  rancho  at  Camulos 219 

Where  Kobert  Louis  Stevenson  lodged  in  Monterey     ....  225 

Carmel    Mission 232 

A  bungalow  court 240 

Typical    California    bungalow 245 

A    cozy    home 252 

An    attractive    house 259 

Almond    orchard    in   bloom 270 

"Palms  take  the  place  of  the  shade  trees  of  the  east"     .     .     .277 

A  beautiful  ranch  entrance 284 

The    Dutch    oven  .296 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN 
CALIFORNIA 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

THE  DESERTS 
I.  INTEODUCTOBY 

WHILE  your  average  Califomian  is  talkative 
to  the  verge  of  garrulity  about  most  things 
in  his  State,  there  are  two  features  of  it  which  he 
does  not  voluntarily  bring  up.  One  is  fleas,  the 
other  is  deserts.  Of  the  fleas  there  is  no  authorita- 
tive count;  of  the  deserts  there  are  two  principal. 
The  one  best  known  is  the  Mojave,  which  occupies 
much  of  the  southeastern  part  of  the  State,  and  lies 
at  an  elevation  of  about  3,500  feet  above  sea-level. 
To  the  south  of  this  again,  that  is  in  the  extreme 
southeastern  corner  of  California,  is  another 
whose  borders  reach  to  the  lower  waters  of 
the  Colorado  Eiver,  and  is,  therefore,  known  as  the 
Colorado  Desert — a  most  confusing  name,  as  people 
hearing  of  it  for  the  first  time  naturally  think  of  it 
as  situated  in  the  State  of  Colorado.  There  are 
numerous  local  names  for  small  sections  of  this 
region,  such  as  the  Yuma,  the  Coachella  and  the 
Conchilla  Deserts,  the  Salton  Sink,  and  so  on. 
Part  of  this  great  waste  is  the  bed  of  an  ancient 
sea,  and  some  of  it  lies  below  the  level  of  the  ocean. 


IN  CALIFORNIA 

It  is  from  a  strip  of  the  Colorado  Desert  that  the 
productive  Imperial  Valley  has  been  reclaimed. 

These  desert-stretches  of  California  covering  an 
area  about  equal  to  the  State  of  Pennsylvania,  far 
from  being  the  monotonous,  gray  level  of  sand 
which  the  word  desert  conveys  to  the  popular  mind, 
are  diversified  with  mountain  ranges,  clustered  and 
solitary  buttes,  gravelly  valleys  and  plains  dotted 
with  clumps  of  shrubbery,  as  well  as  heaving  hum- 
mocks of  pure  sand — all  sun-scorched  and  moisture- 
less,  but  clothed  in  a  wonderful  charm  of  color  and 
permeated  with  a  life-giving  quality  of  air. 

Appreciation  of  the  desert's  charm  is  inborn,  if 
it  exists  at  all.  To  one  who  is  alive  to  its  beauty, 
who  feels  the  fascination  of  its  solemn  silences  and 
its  luring  distances,  no  hardship  is  too  great  to  de- 
ter him  from  visiting  it;  no  beating  of  wind  or 
scorching  of  sun  experienced  there  too  severe  to 
prevent  his  return  to  it.  We  once  met  at  a  little 
desert  post-office  an  old  prospector  who  had 
"  packed "  his  burros  up  and  down  the  barren  rocks 
of  the  desert  ranges  for  thirty  years  and  who  now 
held  an  open  letter  in  his  hand.  His  brother,  a 
well-to-do  bachelor  in  New  York,  had  just  died,  and 
a  firm  of  lawyers  there  had  written  the  prospector 
to  come  East,  as  his  presence  was  needed  to  settle 
the  estate  to  which  he  was  sole  heir. 

"Gosh!"  he  said  disgustedly,  "I  reckon  I'll  have 
to  go,  but  you  bet  your  life  I'll  be  back  p.  d.  q.  New 
York!  Say,  I  was  there  once,  and  if  it  come  to 

2 


THE  DESERTS 

choosin'  between  livin*  in  that  place  with  a  million 
to  spend,  and  prospectin'  the  desert  with  old  Jack 
and  Jinny  on  a  grubstake,  me  for  the  desert  V9 

There  is  a  host,  however,  to  whom  the  desert  does 
not  appeal,  who  scout  the  idea  of  visiting  so  dull 
and  comfortless  a  spot,  and  what  is  more  disturb- 
ing, who  will  absolutely  doubt  the  honesty  or  the 
sanity  of  the  desert  enthusiast. 

"You  want  to  stay  in  the  desert?"  such  a  one 
says  to  you.  "What  under  heaven  for?  Why, 
man  alive,  it's  a  hundred  and  twenty  in  the  shade, 
and  no  shade !  I  could  hardly  stand  it  crossing  on 
the  railroad,  though  I  read  and  slept  and  played 
cards  the  whole  time.  That  anybody  should  take 
his  wife,  and  go  by  choice  and  live  in  that  red-hot, 
God-forsaken  waste  for  even  a  day,  shows  a  screw 
loose  here,"  and  he  complacently  taps  his  own  hard 
head. 

It  is  useless  to  argue  with  those  who  feel  thus, 
and  the  best  advice  to  any  who  are  otherwise  than 
positively  drawn  to  this  magic  region,  is  by  all  means 
to  stay  away.  To  one,  however,  who  from  the  car 
windows  or  through  books  has  felt  the  drawing 
cords  of  its  grave  beauty  and  its  mystery,  these 

ges  are  designed  to  offer  some  practical  help. 

II.    THE  MOJAVE 

At  the  outset,  it  is  essential  to  the  enjoyment 
of  a  desert  outing  that  you  have  some  definite 
purpose  in  view,  other  than  mere  pastime.  You 

3 


UNDEB  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFOENIA 

cannot  repair  there  successfully  as  you  do  to  the 
beach,  for  a  stroll  along  the  sands  and  then  to  your 
hotel  for  a  bath  and  a  good  dinner.  You  may  go 
to  trace  the  still  visible  shore-lines  of  that  prehis- 
toric sea  of  the  Salton  Sink  and  to  indulge  your 
fancy  in  a  walk  upon  that  beach  which  is  now  but 
the  ghost  of  a  beach ;  or  to  collect  baskets  from  some 
remnants  of  an  Indian  tribe ;  to  study  the  plant  life 
of  the  desert,  or  its  mineralogy,  or  its  animals;  to 
paint  or  to  sketch;  or  you  may  go  just  for  the  sake 
of  a  trip  to  the  Pickaninny  Buttes  and  back,  with  Mo- 
jave  Jim  for  guide — but  unless  you  know  what  you 
are  on  the  desert  for,  you  are  going  to  be  badly 
fretted  inside  of  twenty-four  hours. 

Of  our  own  visits  to  the  Mojave  Desert,  taken 
for  the  primary  purposes  of  studying  the  flowers 
and  painting  them,  two  may  be  taken  as  typical  of 
the  sort  that  is  entirely  practicable  for  the  average 
traveler  to  undertake  and  enjoy.  Both  visits  were 
made  during  the  season  of  the  spring  blossoming 
which  in  that  region  extends,  roughly  speaking, 
from  mid-April  to  the  latter  part  of  May.  Our 
first  sojourn  was  for  four  days,  spent  at  Victor- 
villa,  a  mining-supply  village  on  the  Santa  Fe  Kail- 
road.  Here  we  found  a  plain  and  fairly  comforta- 
ble hotel  patronized  by  prospectors,  miners  and 
railroad  men,  and  were  able  to  engage  a  horse  and 
light  wagon  which  enabled  us  to  take  daily  ex- 
cursions out  upon  the  illimitable  waste  that  lay  all 
about  us.  Such  a  trip  as  this  is  comparatively  easy 

4 


THE  DESEBTS 


and  requires  little  preparation;  but  it  should  be 
borne  in  mind  when  packing  for  it,  that  the  desert 
sun  will  even  in  a  few  days  destroy  any  fineness  of 
wearing  apparel — therefore  take  your  plainest 
clothes;  and  that  the  desert  air  will  impart  an  ap- 
petite, which  if  you  are  none  too  strong  can  be  but 
poorly  satisfied  with  rough  fare — therefore  take  in 
your  trunk  a  few  of  the  good  things  of  civilization. 
On  this  experimental  trip  we  learned  some  simple 
fundamental  facts  about  the  desert.  Its  most  beau- 
tiful hours  are  from  dawn  until  ten  in  the  morning, 
and  from  four  or  five  in  the  afternoon  until  night- 
fall. During  these  periods  at  the  season  of  the 
year  when  we  were  there,  the  atmosphere  was  more 
of  heaven  than  of  earth.  The  glowing  sky,  radiant 
with  sunrise  and  sunset  glories;  the  unspeakable 
opalescent  tints  on  distant  mountains ;  the  brilliant 
flowers  blooming  upon  the  sands  at  one's  feet;  a 
sense  of  largeness  and  indifference  to  petty  things 
—these  are  gifts  of  the  desert's  mornings  and  even- 
ings never  to  be  forgotten.  Then,  to  crown  all,  there 
is  the  night — serene,  starlit,  full  of  peace,  its  solemn 
stillness  broken  only  by  the  lament  of  some  owl  far 
or  near,  or  the  cry  of  coyotes  hunting.  And  over 
and  beyond  these  recitable  matters  there  is  an  un- 
utterable something  that  tugs  at  the  heart  of  the 
true  desert  lover,  and  makes  him  long  evermore  for 
its  silent  places.  For  it  is  not  merely  what  the  out- 
ward eye  takes  in  that  urges  us  on  to  visit  certain 
regions — it  is  the  residence  there  of  intangible  in- 

5 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

fluences  that  feed  our  spirits  with  manna  from  the 
secret  storehouses  of  the  universe,  making  us  for 
the  time  partakers  of  an  unseen  feast  of  life  with 
the  Master  Himself.  During  these  night  watches 
on  the  desert,  the  veil  between  this  world  and  the 
spiritual  seems  thinner  than  elsewhere,  and  one  in 
some  measure  comprehends  why  prophets  of  all 
time  have  found  inspiration  and  strength  in  desert 
regions.  Here  in  these  waterless  wastes,  the  wine 
of  a  spiritual  kingdom  is  poured  abundantly  and 
the  awakened  soul  hears  the  summons  to  a  new  life. 

The  desert  day,  however,  is  apt  to  be  another 
matter.  About  ten  in  the  morning — we  are  speak- 
ing of  the  spring  days — down  comes  the  heat,  and 
often  by  noon  the  wind  has  begun  to  blow — a  per- 
sistent, intrusive,  irritating  wind.  From  then  on 
until  the  sun  is  well  down  the  western  sky,  one  ap- 
preciates as  never  before  the  comfort  of  the  shadow 
of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land;  and  after  prepar- 
ing dinner  in  its  shade  one  is  content  to  remain 
quietly  there  reading,  or  watching  the  play  of  light 
and  shadow  on  the  far-off  mountain  ranges,  or  en- 
joying a  nap,  until  the  elemental  fierceness  of  the 
midday  melts  into  the  evening  coolness. 

It  is  a  rare  experience,  that  first  picnic  in  the 
shady  crevices  of  the  Mojave  rocks.  Dobbin  has 
had  his  keg  of  water,  which  was  brought  along  in 
the  spring  wagon,  and  he  is  munching  his  truss  of 
alfalfa,  making  an  occasional  side  nip  at  a  sprig 
of  desert  green;  in  the  old  mine-shaft  that  yawns 


THE  DESEETS 

below  us,  some  birds  with  open  bills  and  drooping 
wings  pant  and  rest,  refugees  from  the  noontide 
heat  too  dejected  to  bicker ;  before  us  stretches,  mile 
upon  mile,  a  shimmering  expanse  of  brown  and  gray 
earth,  dotted  with  glistening  upheavals  of  igneous 
rock  and  clumps  of  dull-green  shrubs,  with  here  and 
there  a  tree  yucca  thrusting  up  its  bristling,  shaggy 
arms.  Far  to  the  westward  the  desert  plain  rises 
to  meet  the  great  mountains  stooping  down — ma- 
jestic peaks  of  eight,  nine  and  ten  thousand  feet, 
clothed  in  mysteries  of  pink  and  amethyst  and  pur- 
ple, and  crowned  with  dreamy  fields  of  snow  that 
seem  in  those  pure  heights  against  the  pale  noon 
sky,  as  parts  of  a  spiritual  landscape,  the  rest  of 
which  lies  beyond  mortal  ken.  Off  to  the  north  a 
slender  green  strip  marks  the  sinuous  course  of  the 
Mojave  Eiver,  that  strange  stream  which  has  its 
source  in  the  pure  springs  and  snow  crevasses  of 
the  San  Bernardino  summits,  but  is  without  a 
mouth,  its  waters  being  swallowed  up  in  the  in- 
satiable sands  not  far  from  Victor.  The  mythical 
region  of  the  mystic's  dream 

"Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea" — 

has  a  real  existence  here.  Then  when  the  sun  has 
gone  to  his  setting,  there  is  the  drive  home  in  the. 
quiet  afterglow,  with  the  palpitating  light  of  the 
first  star  burning  in  the  twilight  sky,  and  all  the 

7 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

earth  baptized  for  a  brief  space  into  a  heavenly 
peace,  before  the  night  shall  shut  in. 

In  these  desert  outings — even  the  little  trips  of  a 
day  which  we  took  around  Victorville — there  lies 
one  special  danger.  This  is  not  rattlesnakes,  of 
which  we  caught  sight  of  one,  now  and  then,  as 
much  frightened  at  sight  of  us  as  we  of  it;  nor 
"bad  men,"  of  whom  we  saw  none;  but  it  is  the 
ease  with  which  one  may  lose  one's  way  even  within 
a  short  distance  of  human  habitations.  There  is  a 
"Deadman's  Point"  almost  anywhere  on  the  desert, 
and  lost  men  have  died  of  thirst  within  calling  dis- 
tance of  Victor.  We  have  more  than  once  stepped 
aside  to  explore  some  spot  a  few  rods  from  the  trail, 
and  spent  a  good  part  of  the  morning  searching  for 
the  road  again.  The  inequalities  of  the  ground  are 
continually  hiding  what  lies  even  a  little  way  be- 
hind, and  bringing  into  view  fresh  glimpses  ahead 
so  like  every  other  part  of  the  desert  that  the  sense 
of  relation  becomes  confused,  and  one  is  lost  before 
he  knows  it.  Even  well-marked  trails  are  not  to  be 
counted  upon,  for  the  sand  storms  that  may  come 
up  any  time,  may  obliterate  them  in  half  an  hour. 
The  only  safety  is  to  fix  thoroughly  in  your  mind 
the  points  of  the  compass,  and  carefully  to  note 
large,  well-defined  landmarks  as  you  travel — such 
as  a  mass  of  rocks  identifiable  by  some  peculiarity 
of  formation,  some  solitary  butte,  a  jutting  promon- 
tory or  a  particular  snow-capped  peak;  and  never 
in  any  case  venture  many  miles  from  your  base  on 

8 


THE  DESEETS 

an  unknown   way  without   an   experienced   guide. 

Familiarized  somewhat  with  desert  conditions  by 
this  brief  Victorville  excursion,  we  decided  another 
year  to  go  to  the  Mojave  for  a  longer  sojourn, 
camping  remote  from  the  haunts  of  men  and  there- 
fore undertaking  to  carry  with  us  from  home  every- 
thing needed  to  sustain  life  for  a  period  of  three 
weeks,  except  water. 

We  are  not  of  the  iron-framed  class  of  campers, 
and  the  Mojave  is  no  respecter  of  persons,  but  piti- 
less alike  to  weak  and  strong.  So  here  was  a  prob- 
lem. There  is  upon  this  desert  a  small  town  called 
Hesperia,  on  the  Santa  Fe  Kailway.  Years  ago  it 
had  been  "boomed,"  and  the  boom  having  burst 
in  due  course  of  time,  the  place  now  abides  amid  the 
pieces,  weed-grown  and  silent.  Eight  miles  from 
this  incipient  Tadmor,  we  learned  of  a  spot  beside 
the  beautiful  Mojave  River,  where  we  might  pitch 
our  tent  undisturbed,  and  look  across  the  desert 
sands  to  the  grandeur  of  snow-capped  mountains. 
There  we  would  make  our  camp. 

So  when  the  winter  rains  were  over,  we  got  to- 
gether our  tent  and  blankets,  packed  a  couple  of 
boxes  of  provisions,*  put  the  cat  out  to  board,  and 

*As  a  guide  to  the  novice  desiring  to  duplicate  such  an  experi- 
ence, a  statement  follows  of  the  preparations: 

We  purchased  a  camp  outfit  in  Los  Angeles  which  should  be  suf- 
ficiently strong  to  answer  for  this  and  many  another  camping  trip 
to  follow.  This  outfit  will  be  found  described  in  the  chapter  en- 
titled "Under  the  Stars  at  Crocker's."  For  convenience  of  handling, 
the  stove,  dishes  and  many  smaller  articles  were  packed  in  two 
medium-sized  boxes  with  rope  handles — the  handles  made  them 

9 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFOENIA 

with  sufficient  variety  of  clothing  in  our  bag- 
gage to  provide  for  both  extreme  heat  and  extreme 
cold — for  the  desert  can  dispense  you  both  within 
thirty  minutes — we  locked  the  door  behind  us,  and 

checkable  as  baggage— each  weighing  about  one  hundred  pounds; 
and  the  tent  with  its  especial  belongings,  including  the  folding- 
chairs, axe,  shovel,  etc.,  was  rolled  into  a  snug  bundle,  covered  with 
burlap  and  stoutly  roped.  This  also  was  checkable  as  baggage.  It 
is  advisable  to  divide  your  luggage  into  numerous  small  packages 
rather  than  to  have  it  consist  of  one  or  more  bulky  ones,  especially 
if  transportation  by  burro  is  part  of  the  program,  as  is  often  the 
case  through  the  West.  As  to  provisions,  a  visit  to  a  first-class 
grocery  and  the  confession  of  the  nature  of  our  trip  to  an  obliging 
clerk  enlisted  his  sympathetic  interest,  for  like  all  Californians,  he 
liked  the  same  sort  of  thing  himself.  With  his  cooperation  we  had 
the  following  list  of  articles  securely  packed  in  a  strong  box,  and 
w«  found  by  experience  that  they  just  about  supplied  the  physical 
needs  of  man  and  wife  for  a  three  weeks'  outing. 

Flour    * 10  Ibs. 

White  Corn  Meal    10  Ibs. 

Crackers,  various  kinds    1  dozen   boxes 

Shredded  Wheat  Biscuit  and  Triscuit 6  boxes  each 

Soups,    (Franco- American)   assorted   1  dozen  small  cans 

Bacon,  not  sliced  2  Ibs. 

Dried  Beef,  in  chunk   2  Ibs. 

Corned  Beef,  Deviled  Ham  and  Tongue,  boned 

Chicken  and  Turkey  2  cans  each 

Salmon  and  Sardines   2  cans  each 

String    Beans,    Asparagus    Tips,    Corn,    Ripe 

Olives    2  cans  each 

Tomatoes    6  cans 

Rice  and  Lentils   2  Ibs.  each 

Dried    Lima    Beans,    Navy    Beans   and    Pink 

Beans    (Frijoles)    2  Ibs.  each 

Small  Hominy,  Macaroni,  Spaghetti 1  lb.  each 

Potatoes  (More  if  you  have  room)    12  Ibs. 

Grape  Fruit,  Oranges  and  Lemons  1  dozen  each 

Dried  peaches,  apricots  and  apples  1  lb.  each 

Prunes,  Fard  Dates,  Raisins  and  Dried  Figs..     2  Ibs.  each 

English  Walnuts   2  Ibs. 

Eggs    4  or  5  dozen 

10 


THE  DESERTS 

one  April  morning  set  forth.  Noon  found  us  landed 
with  our  boxes  around  us  at  the  nearest  station  to 
our  camp-site.  The  place  had  been  selected  through 
the  advice  of  a  friend  who  knew  the  region,  for  in 
venturing  into  the  wilderness  it  is  essential  that 
you  should  be  assured  in  advance  of  a  good  situa- 
tion, either  through  personal  investigation  or  the 
advice  of  one  who  knows  the  spot. 

We  had  engaged  beforehand  the  services  of  a 
man  to  transport  us  from  the  station,  where  he  met 
us  with  a  Studebaker  wagon  and  a  stout  team  of 
horses.  Of  course  it  would  have  been  more  like  a 
book  if  his  outfit  had  been  a  string  of  burros,  but  we 
set  down  the  fact  as  it  happened.  He  proved  to  be 
a  fatherly  old  soul  from  Pike  County,  Missouri,  for 
which  his  unweaned  heart  was  pining;  and  as  he 
drove,  he  began  to  gossip  of  brother  Pete  who 
would  be  seventy-six  come  next  Fourth,  and  son 
Abner  who  was  farming  the  place  now,  and  Aunt 
'Mandy,  bless  you  what  a  woman  she  was  to  spin 
home-spun! — she's  dead  now,  these  twenty  year; 
until  he  became  quite  unconscious  that  just  now  we 

Butter   (packed  in  tumblers)    7  Ibs. 

Sugar    6  Ibs. 

Salt   1  package 

Pepper,  Magic  Yeast  and  Baking  Powder ....     1  box  each 

Soap    2  cakes 

Candles 

Conserves,  Canned  Fruits,  Cereals,  Evaporated  Cream  and 

Milk,  and  Sweets,  according  to  liking. 

In  passing  it  may  be  remarked  that  provisions  are  not  checked 
as  baggage  on  the  railways,  and  must  be  shipped  by  express. 

11 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

were  all  traveling  a  troublous  road  in  California. 
The  wagon — blessed  be  its  honest  maker — banged 
and  bounded  airily  over  rocks  and  clumps  of  sage- 
brush, now  two  wheels  in  the  air  while  the  other 
two  were  down  to  the  hub  in  a  wash-out;  now 
dropping  us  bodily  into  a  cross-gulch  with  a  stun- 
ning thump  that  made  our  anatomies  cry  out  and 
brought  loose  bits  of  baggage  flying  about  our  ears. 
Finally  we  crossed  a  stony  arroyo  at  a  hand  gallop, 
and  after  tugging  up  a  ridge  of  sand  beyond,  our 
wheels  buried  in  it  halfway  to  the  hub  and  raising 
a  suffocating  dust,  we  came  out  into  the  open  desert 
dotted  with  sage-brush  and  tree  yuccas.  Our  Jehu 
pointed  with  his  whip  to  a  thin  line  of  green  trees 
a  mile  away. 

' l  That 's  the  Moharvy  River, ' '  he  remarked,  ' '  and 
when  the  boys  was  fencin'  in  the  range  last  year 
they  camped  down  there  under  them  sycamores. 
It's  shady  there,  and  water's  handy.  I  reckon 
you'll  like  it." 

We  reckoned  so,  too;  for  the  leisurely  old  trees 
and  the  strip  of  green  vegetation  by  the  still  waters 
of  the  shallow,  broad  flowing  river,  made  an  oasis 
spot  that  for  "homeyness"  and  comfort  exceeded 
our  most  sanguine  hopes. 

There  our  driver  dumped  us  out,  piled  our  boxes 
and  blankets  in  a  heap  beside  us,  remarked  that  he 
reckoned  he  would  turn  up  again  that  day  three 
weeks  and  tote  us  back,  if  we  did  not  get  tired  be- 
fore, and  if  we  did  maybe  we  could  let  him  know 

12 


THE  DESEBTS 

by  Jim  Johnson  who  looked  after  the  cattle  on  that 
range,  and  so  long,  good  luck  to  us. 

It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  camp 
was  to  be  made,  goods  unpacked  and  supper  cooked 
before  nightfall;  but  we  devoted  a  few  preliminary 
moments  to  looking  over  the  place  we  had  come  so 
far  to  see. 

First  in  point  of  practical  utility,  there  was  the 
river  of  pure  mountain  water  within  a  stone's 
throw,  with  driftwood  for  our  fire  scattered  along 
the  shore.  A  short  distance  behind  us,  the  ground 
rose  abruptly  in  the  form  of  a  tableland  promising 
protection  from  the  worst  of  the  winds  which  our 
Missouri  friend  had  told  us  came  "abilin*  now  and 
agin"  out  of  Horsethief  Canon  and  Eattlesnake 
Draw.  Back  of  this  mesa  rose  the  snow-capped 
range  of  the  San  Bernardino,  while  in  front  of  us, 
under  a  cloudless  sky,  the  desert  lay,  silent,  mys- 
terious, vast — the  afternoon  heat  hovering  low  upon 
it  in  quivering  waves,  through  which  far  across 
sagey  plains  we  saw  as  in  a  dream  a  distant  range 
of  amethystine  granite  hills.  Somewhere  doves 
were  cooing,  a  flock  of  restless  sparrows  twittered 
in  the  wild  plum  bushes  by  the  river,  and  a  valley 
quail  whistled  from  the  tip  of  a  cactus  near  by.  A 
breath  of  cool  wind  out  of  the  mountains  came 
mingled  with  the  drowsy  hum  of  buccaneering  bees 
ravaging  a  clump  of  flowers. 

The  night  closed  in  still  and  brilliantly  starlit, 
and  we  decided  that  it  would  be  flying  in  the  face 

13 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

of  Providence  to  sleep  in  a  tent  when  we  might  lie 
under  the  stars.  All  the  preceding  winter  we  had 
slept  outdoor  under  the  gentle  skies  of  Santa  Cata- 
lina  Island;  and,  following  our  practice  there,  we 
now  laid  our  blankets  lightly  upon  the  cots  in  that 
quiet  twilight  hour,  and  tucked  them  in,  as  one 
would  prepare  a  bed  at  home. 

Memory  will  never  fail  us  regarding  that  first 
night  in  the  desert.  By  nine  o'clock  Horsethief 
Canon  and  Rattlesnake  Draw  had  wind  of  us,  and 
bore  down  upon  us  with  a  shrewd  blast  right  off 
the  ice.  It  was  as  eager  and  as  nipping  an  air  as 
ever  blew  on  the  ramparts  at  Elsinore,  and  it 
traveled  fast.  Our  clothing  took  on  the  similitude 
of  thin  expanses  of  ice.  The  blankets  which  we 
thought  heavy  when  we  packed  them  at  eighty  in 
the  shade  in  Pasadena,  flapped  in  the  gale  like  gos- 
samer. An  old  down-quilt  laid  across  the  foot  of 
our  cots,  arose  and  skimmed  away  to  a  clump  of 
sage-brush  out  on  the  illimitable  sands.  The  tent 
strained  furiously  at  its  pegs  and  threatened  to  fol- 
low the  quilt  at  any  moment.  A  pack  of  coyotes  set 
tip  a  shivering  chorus  in  the  distance.  Even  the 
motherly  old  sycamore  above  our  heads  lost  the  pro- 
tecting air  which  we  had  felt  in  it  earlier  in  the  day, 
and  creaked  and  groaned  ominously  in  the  blast, 
brandishing  its  great  branches  threateningly  over 
us.  Fortunately  neither  of  us  was  nervous  or  easily 
alarmed,  and  though  very  sleepy  and  very  cold,  the 
abiding  sense  of  humor  which  had  borne  us  through 

14 


THE  DESERTS 

other  emergencies,  remained  with  us  still.  Holding 
down  the  covers  with  both  hands,  we  patiently 
awaited  the  morning,  which,  when  it  came,  with  one 
of  those  magical  changes  inseparable  from  desert 
life,  aroused  us  from  a  belated  snatch  of  sleep  with 
a  windless  radiance  of  sunshine,  and  a  musical 
chorus  from  the  boughs  above.  All  the  birds  in  the 
desert  seemed  assembled  there  to  give  us  a  welcome. 
We  arose  and,  greeting  our  little  brothers  of  the 
air,  set  our  house  in  order. 

Warned  by  the  first  night's  experience,  we  sewed 
the  blankets  up  into  sleeping  bags  and  reinforced 
the  two  heavy  Navajo  rugs,  on  which  we  lay,  with 
layers  of  newspapers.  By  moving  the  cots  at  night 
so  that  the  foot  of  each  was  within  the  tent-door 
and  the  head  out,  we  secured  the  coveted  freshness 
of  night  air  for  our  lungs  without  risking  having 
our  covering  blown  off.  Then  the  wind,  after 
the  perverse  fashion  of  inanimate  things,  finding 
itself  foiled,  never  afterwards  blew  upon  us  so 
fiercely. 

Life  in  the  desert  is  an  adaptation  to  conditions. 
To  take  up  arms  against  the  obstacles  is  less  wise 
than  to  submit  to  the  inevitable.  The  old-time  poet 
who  wrote,  "To  bear  is  to  conquer  our  fate,"  had 
the  making  of  a  good  desert  dweller.  If  the  cook- 
stove  will  not  burn  because  of  the  wind,  the  wise 
man  digs  a  hole  in  the  ground,  and  sets  his  Dutch- 
oven  going.  When  the  thermometer  runs  up  to  a 
breezeless  hundred  in  the  shade,  he  takes  a  hint 

15 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

from  the  breeze  and  stops  work,  too.  Our  main  ad- 
vice, for  a  desert  trip  of  this  nature,  provided  al- 
ways that  you  are  not  of  the  tough  kind  that  can 
stand  anything,  would  be  this:  Be  sure  to  take 
enough  material  for  emergencies.  During  this  stay 
on  the  Mojave,  for  instance,  we  had  one  furious  but 
short-lived  rain  storm,  some  spits  of  hail,  a  little 
snow,  one  night  so  cold  that  our  camp  was  white 
with  frost,  some  days  of  heat  so  intense  that  the 
thinnest  clothing  at  midday  was  necessary  for  com- 
fort, and  others  when  all  these  material  considera- 
tions were  of  no  importance  in  the  absolute  comfort 
and  tranquillity  of  the  atmosphere. 

In  planning  for  a  desert  camp,  the  question  of 
how  to  get  about  after  you  are  settled,  is  one  that 
requires  serious  attention.  It  happened  that  our 
work  was  such  that  we  could  ordinarily  pursue  it 
close  to  camp,  but  when  we  needed  to  move  about  we 
found  a  neighboring  ditch-tender's  burros  to  be  the 
ideal  motive  power.  While  slow,  the  burro  is  pref- 
erable to  a  horse  in  being  more  easily  cared  for, 
and  in  standing  the  shortcomings  of  desert  life  with 
patience  and  even  with  good  humor.  He  requires  a 
minimum  of  water,  and  lives  contentedly  enough  on 
a  browse  of  shrubs  and  wild  flowers,  though  if  you 
can  include  in  your  camp  stores  enough  crushed  bar- 
ley to  afford  the  little  animal  a  quart  of  it  once  a 
day,  he  will  do  better  work  for  you.  The  whims  of 
burro  appetite  we  found  rather  entertaining. 
Paper,  for  instance,  is  quite  a  tidbit,  be  it  tissue  or 

16 


THE  DESERTS 

rnanila ;  even  cardboard,  if  it  is  thin,  such  as  is  used 
in  making  confectioner's  ice-cream  boxes,  has  its 
devotees  in  burrodom;  while  to  all  a  bit  of  news- 
paper is  choice.  We  made  a  note  of  what  one  of 
our  desert  burros  had  for  lunch  upon  a  picnicking 
occasion.  He  had  been  standing  indifferently  up  to 
his  knees  in  grass,  without  so  much  as  nibbling  at  it, 
and  we  thought  he  could  not  be  hungry,  but  here  are 
the  items  in  the  order  of  consumption: 

Tissue  paper  and  eggshells ;  plain  white  wrapping 
paper;  brown  paper  and  some  crusts  of  zwieback; 
bread  and  butter;  one  boiled  egg  in  the  shell,  and 
two  prune  seeds  wrapped  in  tissue  paper — (he  spat 
out  one  prune  seed  and  the  yolk  of  the  egg,  but  later 
ate  the  shell) ;  steeped  tea  leaves  and  tissue  paper; 
a  few  bran  crackers ;  a  slice  of  cake ;  a  bit  of  cheese ; 
and  two  orange  skins,  keenly  relished. 

Having  exhausted  the  scraps  from  our  luncheon, 
he  topped  off  with  a  demi-tasse  of  dry  cottonwood 
leaves,  picked  up  from  the  ground. 

One  day  our  neighbor,  the  ditch-tender,  stopped 
at  our  camp  to  pass  the  time  of  day,  and  the  talk 
fell  on  burros. 

' '  Some  folks  say  a  burro  never  dies, ' '  he  gossiped, 
"and  to  prove  it  they'll  ask  you  if  you  ever  seen  a 
dead  one.  But,  gosh,  that  ain't  so.  To  be  sure,  a 
burro  mighty  seldom  gets  sick,  but  if  he  does  git 
sick,  you  bet  he  kicks  the  bucket  quick.  How  old 
will  a  burro  git  to  be?  Lord,  I  don't  know.  Now 
that  black  burro  of  mine,  he  was  twenty  years  old 

17 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

when  I  got  him  and  I've  had  him  fifteen  year.  How 
much  does  add  up?  Thirty-five  year  old?  Well, 
he's  all  of  that,  you  bet,  and  he's  as  good  as  ever. 
Why,  gosh  a 'mighty,  he'll  run  like  a  deer,  if  he  finds 
he's  loose. 

"Yes,  sirree,"  he  continued,  " there's  nothin'  like 
'em  for  the  desert.  Some  folks  say  they  don't  care 
much  for  water,  but  I  know  they  like  a  good  drink 
of  fresh  water  all  right,  same  as  any  animal ;  but  if 
it  ain't  to  be  had,  they're  reasonable — they  don't  go 
to  pieces  for  want  of  it  like  a  horse  does.  I've 
known  a  burro  to  go  three  days  without  water,  but 
I  don't  want  no  burro  of  mine  to  have  to  go  dry- 
longer  than  that.  I  guess  that's  pretty  near  the 
limit. 

"Eating?  Yes,  you're  right  about  that — they're 
purty  permisc'ous  eaters — purty  much  ev'ything 
from  shoe-strings  to  sagebrush  goes  with  them. 
When  I  clear  up  after  a  meal,  the  burros  come  in 
right  handy ;  they  clean  up  all  the  scraps,  the  potato 
parings,  and  beans  that's  left  over  and  so  on,  and 
old  Black  Jack  there  thinks  he's  cheated  bad  if  I 
don 't  give  him  the  frying  pan  to  lick  clean.  You  got 
to  watch  how  you  leave  things  layin'  loose  around 
camp,  though ;  I  had  a  burro  wunst  eat  a  good  straw 
hat  for  me — brand  new,  cost  me  six  bits  in  San  Ber'- 
doo — eat  it  all  up  so's  you  couldn't  tell  whether 
what  was  left  was  a  necktie  or  a  hat  band,  and  I 
don't  know  why  he  left  that." 

From  Sancho  Panza's  day — and  doubtless  from 

18 


THE  DESEETS 

an  earlier — men  have  fellowshiped  affectionately 
with  donkeys,  and  the  average  Californian,  in  com- 
mon with  all  who  know  the  burro  intimately,  has  a 
weak  spot  in  his  heart  for  him.  The  little  beast 
would  be  only  a  joke,  if  he  were  not  so  useful — if  he 
had  not  so  often  stood  between  the  life  of  his  mas- 
ter and  death.  His  cat-like  quality  of  clinging  to 
the  skirts  of  existence  till  the  last  strand  parts,  and 
the  habit  of  bearing  with  superhuman  patience  the 
buffets  and  privations  of  a  frontier  career,  more 
than  offset  the  burro's  exasperating  pigheadedness 
and  blundering,  stupid  ways,  that  contrast  so 
sharply  with  the  nervous,  clean-cut,  intelligent  ac- 
tion of  a  good  horse.  Moreover,  your  burro  train 
is  a  sort  of  traveling  vaudeville  show  in  the  wilder- 
ness, and  furnishes  an  element  of  unpremeditated 
humor  in  a  weary  land.  When  Jack  and  Jenny  rub 
noses  after  a  day's  separation,  or  lift  up  their  ri- 
liculous,  labored  voices  in  raucous  salutation  to 
ich  other,  or  raise  their  great  ears  in  interested 
tttention  when  something  happens  on  ahead,  or 
ip  them  out  like  horizontal  bars  in  dejection  when 
lere's  nothing  doing,  you  laugh  in  spite  of  your- 
self and  think,  "What,  after  all,  is  life  without  a 
burro !" 

III.    THE  COLOBADO  DESERT  OF  CALIFOBNIA 

As  different  from  the  Mojave  as  one  race  of  men 
>m  another,  is  the  Colorado  Desert  of  Southern 

19 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

California.  To  the  lover  of  the  artistic  it  appeals 
as  far  more  picturesque  than  the  more  northern 
desert,  and  its  floral  life  is  very  different.  While 
the  Mojave  may  not  be  visited  until  early  May  to 
be  seen  in  the  glory  of  its  spring,  the  Colorado 
Desert  offers  its  best  in  March,  though  if  it  is  pos- 
sible to  remain  longer,  the  glorious  display  of  mul- 
titudinous cactus  blooms,  of  the  tree-dalea  in  its 
floral  robe  of  royal  purple,  and  the  palo  verde  be- 
spangled in  gold,  will  reward  the  heat-proof  lin- 
gerer until  April  and  May^or  even  June. 

The  Colorado  Desert  being  in  a  low  sink,  its  air 
possesses  at  seasons  a  quality  of  enervation  that  is 
not  noticeable  on  the  Mojave's  elevated  plateaus, 
and  the  time  when  it  may  be  visited  with  pleasure 
by  the  unacclimated  is  therefore  shorter.  For  com- 
fortable conditions  of  living  and  ease  of  access  to  a 
typical  part  of  this  region 's  beauties  and  wonders, 
there  is  no  more  satisfactory  headquarters  than 
Palm  Springs,  a  small  settlement  at  the  eastern  base 
of  San  Jacinto  Mountain,  adjacent  to  some  warm 
sulphur  springs  frequented  from  time  immemorial 
by  the  Indians.  It  is  situated  upon  a  shelving  edge 
of  the  desert,  which,  here  between  the  San  Jacinto 
and  the  San  Bernardino  ranges,  thrusts  in  a  long 
sandy  tongue  to  which  the  early  Spaniards  gave  the 
name  of  the  Conchilla  Desert — that  is,  the  Desert 
of  the  Little  Shells — because  of  the  myriads  of  tiny 
shells  that  strew  it  in  places. 

Palm  Springs  village  is  reached  by  private  con- 

20 


THE  DESERTS 

veyance  from  the  station  of  the  same  name  six  miles 
distant  on  the  Southern  Pacific  Railroad,  and  from 
November  till  the  first  of  May  is  resorted  to  by  suf- 
ferers from  respiratory  troubles,  for  whom  sani- 
tariums are  maintained  embowered  in  palm,  fig,  and 
orange  trees.  The  casual  visitor  may  board  at  one 
of  them  if  he  will,  or  with  one  of  the  few  resident 
families,  or — and  this  is  the  more  cheerful  way — 
he  may  keep  house  in  a  rented  room,  tent  or  cot- 
tage, eking  out  the  scanty  supplies  of  the  local  store 
by  sending  to  Banning,  twenty-five  miles  away,  or 
to  Los  Angeles,  one  hundred  miles  distant,  for 
needed  comforts  and  luxuries.  He  should  by  all 
means  arrange  to  sleep  in  the  open — his  cot  set  di- 
rectly under  the  stars,  or  at  least  upon  an  open 
porch.  In  no  other  way  can  one  enjoy  the  tran- 
scendent freshness  and  sweetness  of  the  desert  air, 
which  especially  during  the  dewless  night  and  early 
morning  hours  is  the  very  breath  of  heaven.  Stim- 

ilating  as  a  tonic,  without  dampness  or  harshness, 

dmply  to  inhale  it  gives  a  new  joy  to  living. 
The  feature  at  Palm  Springs  that  offers  a  special 

ittr action  to  sojourners,  is  the  great  San  Jacinto 
fountain,  which  towers  immediately  back  of  the  lit- 

le  settlement.  Its  rugged  sides  are  cleft  with  many 
inons  extending  for  miles  in  their  sinuous  courses 
far  back  into  the  mountain's  recesses,  opening  up 
new  vistas  of  noble  scenery  and  affording  endless 

>pportunities  to  the  lover  of  mountain  climbing, 
[ere  he  finds  the  freshness  of  a  new  experience  in 

21 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

scaling  the  desert's  sunburnt  heights.  The  pre- 
cipitous range  of  barren  rocks,  glistening  in  the  sun 
like  burnished  metal,  and  appearing  like  a  flat  wall 
rising  sheer  halfway  to  the  zenith,  seems  at  first 
glance  an  impossibility  to  climb,  but  to  one  pos- 
sessed of  average  strength  and  wind,  the  task  once 
entered  upon  resolves  itself  quickly  into  a  delight- 
ful pastime. 

The  rocks,  smooth-shining  in  the  sunlight,  are 
rough  enough  as  a  rule  to  afford  a  good  foothold, 
and  you  step  from  one  to  another,  zigzagging  this 
way  and  that  but  always  mounting  higher,  as 
though  ascending  a  giant's  staircase.  Lovely 
blooms  of  the  cactus  look  hospitably  out  at  you 
from  snug  corners  of  the  rocks,  and  golden  suns  of 
the  desert  encelia  beckon  to  you  to  come  yet  higher. 
The  seemingly  flat  wall  that  confronted  you  from 
the  desert  floor,  now  that  you  are  scaling  it,  proves 
to  be  neither  flat  nor  a  wall,  but  a  succession  of  re- 
ceding rock  ridges,  each  higher  than  the  one  in 
front  of  it.  As  you  climb  and  see  above  you  the 
jagged  crest  of  the  ridge  far  up  the  sky,  you  are 
convinced  that  that  is  the  mountain's  summit,  but 
it  never  is — another  is  just  beyond.  Between  each 
ridge  there  are  sequestered  hollows — arid  flats  and 
coves  and  little  greenish  vales,  waterless  always 
save  for  a  day  or  two  after  some  winter  storm,  when 
shallow  basins  in  the  rocks  hold  pools  of  gathered 
rain. 

Into  these  resting  places  undreamt  of  by  the  trav- 

22 


THE  DESEETS 

elers  on  the  desert  that  gleams  far  out  and  below, 
the  foot  of  man  never  comes,  unless  it  be  in  quest 
of  gold  or  game  for  his  gun;  though  in  other  days 
the  Indians  had  trails  up  these  steeps,  as  weather- 
worn shards  of  a  broken  pot  now  and  then  attest. 
The  desert  birds  however  find  here  somewhat  to 
their  liking  and  the  air  is  musical  with  their  twit- 
ter ;  while  in  the  dust  of  the  shelving  pavements  and 
sloping  walls  of  these  dry  parks,  many  varieties  of 
flowers  blossom  and  smell  sweet — beloperones,  en- 
celias,  trixis,  hosackias,  eriogonums,  kramerias  like 
purple  butterflies  caught  in  thorns — here  and  there 
a  blue  brodiaea,  and  the  canes  of  a  strange,  leafless 
milkweed  rising  like  slender  reeds  six  or  eight  feet, 
their  creamy  umbels  of  bloom  dangling  naked  from 
the  tip.  If  it  be  afternoon,  white  four-o 'clocks  are 
opening  their  snowy  corollas  to  the  cooling  air. 
Here  in  the  hollows  of  the  rocks  the  wild  bee  es- 
tablishes its  kingdom  of  sweetness  and  light,  the 
quail  comes  to  feed  upon  the  harvest  of  wild  seeds, 
and  bob-cats  and  coyotes  make  their  silent  way. 
From  these  hidden  vantage  grounds  there  are  glo- 
rious outlooks  upon  the  mysterious,  fascinating 
desert.  In  the  foreground  are  the  gleaming  sands, 
shadow-flecked  and  dotted  with  millions  of  bushes 
looking  from  this  height  like  pinpoints ;  and  farther 
off  is  another  mountain  barrier  draped  in  ethereal 
>lor,  extending  from  the  snow-capped  peaks  of  the 
Ian  Bernardino  Sierra  at  the  north,  south  to  the 
usty  pass  that  leads  into  the  Coachella  Valley. 

23 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

Each  of  the  San  Jacinto  canons  adjacent  to  Palm 
Springs  is  deserving  of  as  much  time  for  its  ex- 
ploration as  one  can  spare  to  it.  The  main  ones 
nearest  the  village  number  six,  named  respectively, 
Chino,  Tauquitz,  Andreas,  Murray,  Palm  and  Ca- 
thedral. Each  of  these  may  be  visited  within  the 
limits  of  a  day,  if  one  have  no  longer  time  to  spend 
upon  them.  Palm  Canon,  however,  can  only  be 
glanced  at  in  so  short  a  time,  as  its  mouth  is  seven 
miles  distant  by  an  arduous  road,  and  the  visitor 
should  arrange  to  spend  at  least  one  night  there  if 
he  desires  to  get  any  idea  of  what  it  holds.  To  this 
end,  all  needful,  except  water,  must  be  carried,  as 
no  one  lives  within  its  confines. 

The  first  of  the  canons  to  engage  attention,  be- 
cause the  nearest,  is  usually  Tauquitz.  This 
opens  out  upon  the  desert  just  south  of  Palm 
Springs  settlement,  and  pours  for  eight  months  of 
the  year  into  an  artificial  waterway  a  crystal  flood 
of  delicious  mountain  water  that  supplies  the  needs 
of  the  white  villagers  and  the  handful  of  Agua 
Caliente  Indians  whose  reservation  is  close  by.  A 
half  day  will  suffice  for  a  surface  exploration  of 
Tauquitz,  though  if  you  put  a  bite  of  lunch  in  your 
pocket  and  devote  an  entire  day  to  the  jaunt,  it  will 
well  pay  you. 

Of  all  the  canons,  Tauquitz  is  the  only  one  com- 
fortably accessible  on  foot.  Leaving  the  waterless 
sands  of  the  desert  floor,  and  ascending  the  gravelly 
rock-strewn  incline  that  spreads  like  a  huge  fan  out 

24 


K&&m 


The  bisnaga 


THE  DESEETS 

of  the  canon's  mouth,  we  pass  into  one  of  Nature's 
cactus  gardens.  Here  are  bright  purple-flowered 
cereuses  whose  clustered  upright  stems  bristle  from 
the  crevices  of  rock;  here  are  opuntias  of  various 
kinds — one  gray,  spineless  sort  covered  with  a  mass 
of  glorious  pink  blossoms  lovely  as  roses,  cheek  by 
jowl  with  a  burly,  silvery-spined  variety  whose  dis- 
carded joints  strew  the  ground  like  chestnut  burs 
and  draw  blood  with  their  barbed  spines  if  you 
touch  them  ever  so  lightly.  Here,  too,  are  the  ro- 
tund cylinders,  rosy-spined,  of  the  curious  bisnaga 
or  barrel  cactus — natural  water  casks,  filled  from 
root  to  flower-encircled  tip  with  a  drinkable  fluid 
that  has  saved  many  a  human  life. 

By  and  by  we  cross  a  low  ridge  of  rock  and  sud- 
denly the  sound  of  rushing  water  strikes  gratefully 
upon  the  ear — it  is  the  escaping  stream,  whose 
source  is  ten  thousand  feet  above  in  the  melting 
snows  of  San  Jacinto's  summit.  Then  following 
the  trail  across  a  sandy  wash,  we  scramble  through 
a  narrow  gateway  of  fragrant  wild  plum  bushes  in 
bloom,  where  bees  hum  and  butterflies  flutter,  and 
we  are  fairly  within  the  canon.  The  great  barren 
walls  of  granite  rock  incline  upward  and  away  so 
that  the  canon  is  filled  with  sunlight,  yet  cool  with  a 
gentle  breeze  that  is  drawn  down  and  through  the 
gorge  from  the  snowy  heights  of  the  mountain.  Up 
through  thickets  of  clambering  white  ellisia  and  blue 
phacelia  and  scarlet-flowered  beloperone  where 
humming-birds  suck,  the  trail  winds,  bordered  with 

25 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

fragrant  wild  mints,  and  skirting  now  and  then 
great  bowlders  in  whose  shadow  small  ferns  spread 
their  lusty  green  fronds,  and  selaginellas  creep, 
until  at  last  we  reach  a  lofty  barrier  of  rocky  wall 
set  athwart  the  canon.  Here  the  mountain  says  to 
the  desert,  "Thus  far  thou  comest,  but  no  fur- 
ther." Through  a  narrow  cleft  at  this  wall's  top 
the  stream  from  above  emerges  and  plunges  down- 
ward in  a  ribbon-like  fall.  This  is  the  head  of  Tau- 
quitz  Canon,  so  far  as  the  average  visitor  is  con- 
cerned though  if  one  have  the  abilities  of  the  wild 
goat  in  climbing,  it  is  possible  to  scale  this  wall  and 
enter  the  gorge  again  above  the  fall. 

The  Indians  of  Palm  Springs,  though  they  are 
" civilized"  now  out  of  practically  all  semblance  to 
Indians,  have  an  hereditary  dread  of  Tauquitz 
Canon;  its  recesses  are  regarded  by  them  as  the 
especial  haunt  of  an  ancient  god,  whose  name  it 
bears,  and  they  fear  his  anger,  should  they  trespass 
on  his  preserves.  When  a  thunder  storm  rumbles 
and  flashes  on  the  upper  heights,  a  great  wind  roars 
down  this  inner  canon  and  belches  out  into  the 
desert;  and  the  red  man  who  doubts  that  God  Tau- 
quitz is  raging  within  must  either  be  both  deaf  and 
blind  or  a  fool. 

It  was  the  postmaster  who  first  told  us  of  Chino 
Canon. 

"You  ought  to  go  there,  sure,"  he  remarked,  "it's 
the  best  of  the  bunch,  I  think.  A  little  far  to  walk, 
but  you  can  hire  my  buggy  and  the  gray  mare. 

26 


/in 


THE  DESEETS 

Stay  all  day,  if  you  like,  and  come  back  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening.  You  can't  lose  the  old  horse  on  the 
road  home,  even  if  there  ain't  no  moon — not  on 
your  life.  Cost  you  two  dollars,  but  you'll  never 
regret  the  money." 

We  spent  the  two  dollars  and  found  the  postmas- 
ter's enthusiasm  well  grounded. 

Chino  Canon  is  a  titanic  cleft  in  the  mountain 
the  approach  to  which,  a  couple  of  miles  north  of 
Palm  Springs  village,  is  a  superb  upward  sweep  of 
sand,  rocks  and  bowlders,  rising  gradually  and  ma- 
jestically from  the  desert  into  the  shadows  of  the 
mountain's  fastnesses.  The  gateway  to  the  canon, 
formed  by  two  projecting,  verdureless  promontories 
of  the  mountain,  is  two  miles  in  width ;  and  skirting 
the  base  of  one  of  these  a  fairly  good  road  enables 
the  visitor  to  drive  or  ride  a  few  miles  into  the 
canon.  Amid  the  chaos  of  scattered  rocks  through 
which  the  road  winds,  thousands  of  cactuses  flour- 
ish, and  the  air  is  filled  at  times  with  the  honeyed 
fragrance  of  a  myriad  diverse  wild  blossoms  that 
dot  the  gravelly  spaces  among  the  bowlders. 

As  we  pass  within  the  great  entrance — broad  as 
the  gates  of  another  Inferno  but  flooded  with  the 
blessed  sunlight — we  see  the  precipitous  sides  fur- 
wed  with  smaller  side  canons,  and  across  the  west 
end,  like  a  rocky  screen,  the  sierra  lifts  its  jagged 
crest,  dotted  with  what  looks,  these  eight  or  nine 
ousand  feet  below,  like  a  stubble  of  scrub  growth 
ut  which  in  fact  are  mighty  forest  trees.    White 

27 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

lines  that  seam  those  alpine  sides  are  gorges  filled 
with  snow  which,  in  the  deepest,  will  linger  well  into 
the  summer.  We  may  think  Chino  ends  at  the  foot 
of  this  great  barrier  where  the  sides  close  in,  but  as 
we  follow  up  the  ribbon  of  verdure  that  lines  the 
stream  issuing  from  the  canon,  we  come  shortly  to 
a  little  green  oasis  cradled  at  the  mountain's  base 
like  a  sheltered  Swiss  vale.  Here  is  an  excellent 
camp-site,  unique  in  being  supplied  with  water  cold 
and  warm — the  latter  from  a  huge  sulphur  spring 
gushing  up  near  a  small  grove  of  palms.  Beyond 
this  all  trails  end,  and  the  canon,  turning  sharply  to 
the  left,  is  lost  to  us  here  below  in  a  maze  of 
heaven-aspiring  granite  walls. 

Into  this  sequestered  spot,  now  and  then,  comes  a 
man  to  pitch  his  camp  and  rest  from  the  labors  of 
the  outer  world.  One  such — a  prospector — had  been 
there  just  before  us,  when  we  visited  the  place  one 
March  day,  and  had  left  neatly  tacked  upon  the 
branch  of  a  tree  a  board  bearing  the  following  leg- 
end: 


HERMAN  LUHRMAN 

CAMP  SIMPLE  LIFE 

JAN.  16  TO  MARCH  16,  1908. 


A  considerate  man  was  this  lover  of  the  simple 
life,  leaving  for  the  next  comer  his  stock  of  well- 

28 


THE  DESEBTS 

thumbed  magazines  in  a  box  protected  from  the 
weather,  and  beside  the  fireplace  of  rocks  a  pile  of 
kindling  and  dry  wood  in  readiness  for  the  firing. 
His  kindly  spirit  quickened  us  to  try  to  leave  the 
camp  in  equally  good  condition  for  the  next  adven- 
turer. 

Murray,  Andreas  and  Cathedral  Canons  have  each 
special  features  that  make  them  worth  a  visit,  if 
one  have  the  time  to  spare  to  it;  but  let  us  now 
leave  the  canons  for  a  time,  and  wander  out  into 
the  open  desert  toward  the  sunbaked  wash  of  the 
Whitewater  which  lies  three  miles  or  so  eastward 
from  San  Jacinto's  base.  In  this  brief  distance  we 
pass  through  several  distinct  zones  of  plant  life. 
The  cactuses — at  least  most  of  them — cease  to  be 
as  we  leave  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  and  are  re- 
placed by  a  belt  of  creosote  bushes  set  with  much 
precision,  like  shrubs  in  a  park.  The  yellow  forsy- 
thias  of  spring  gardens  in  the  East  are  hardly  more 
yellow  than  these  bushes  when  in  full  bloom — their 
flowers  like  golden  stars  set  in  the  foliage  of  glis- 
tening green.  In  the  liberal  interspaces  among  the 
bushes,  there  are  gay  conventions  of  pink  wild  ver- 
bena, white  chaenactis  red  of  stem,  and  the  yellow 
suns  of  malocothrix,  each  with  a  crimson  spot  at  its 
glowing  center. 

Passing  from  these,  as  the  sands  grow  heavier, 
low  desert  sun-flowers  and  delicate  ox-eyes  begin 
to  appear,  and  by  and  by,  we  find  ourselves  in  the 
home  of  the  fragrant  evening  primroses.  Here  we 

29 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 


are  in  the  sand  dunes  of  the  mid-desert,  and  curi- 
ously enough  something  in  the  look  and  feel  of 
things  brings  up  thoughts  of  the  sea.  A  cool  fresh 
breeze  blows  from  farther  out  and  it  is  hard  to  be- 
lieve that  just  across  yonder  heaving  ridge  of  sand 
where  the  short-trunked  shrubs  are  blown  far  to  one 
side  by  constant  winds,  we  shall  not  see  the  ocean 
surging  upon  the  shingle.  Perhaps  the  spirit  of 
that  ancient  sea  which  once  covered  this  part  of  the 
desert  and  left  to  it  its  legacy  of  little  shells,  still 
walks  its  old-time  haunt. 

How  the  humanity  of  us  is  perpetually  seeking  the 
companionship  of  the  mortal!  Here  in  this  vast 
solitude  of  sand  and  sun  and  wind,  where  the  in- 
tense silence,  the  far-off  dome  of  the  boundless  sky, 
the  long,  long  views  that  nothing  intercepts  until 
they  melt  into  colors  of  another  world,  all  speak 
of  infinity,  exhausted  thought  drops  sooner  or  later 
to  earth  and  finds  relief  in  engaging  itself  with  the 
tracks  upon  the  sand  which  mark  where  finite  life 
has  passed.  This  is  the  desert's  daily  public  print 
— its  newspaper.  Last  night,  we  read,  a  coyote 
passed  this  way — it  must  have  been  last  night,  the 
tracks  are  so  fresh.  We  trace  them  to  a  badger's 
hole  which  he  has  dug  out  to  the  size  of  his  body 
in  quest  of  the  badger.  We  think  he  did  not  find 
the  gray  beast  at  home,  as  there  is  no  evidence  of 
a  struggle,  and  our  feelings  are  mixed — there  is 
gladness  for  the  badger,  but  what  about  that  empty 
coyote-stomach  which  hungered  to  be  filled?  Birds 

30 


THE  DESERTS 

by  the  hundred  have  left  their  tracks  everywhere, 
as  they  fed  on  fallen  seeds  and  improved  their  di- 
gestion with  grains  of  sand  or  sheltered  themselves 
from  the  noonday  heat  in  the  shade  of  various 
plants.  This  smooth  band  that  wavers  heavily  out- 
ward from  a  clump  of  greasewood  is  where  a  snake 
has  moved  his  sluggish  length;  here  where  the  trail 
is  broader  and  confused,  he  has  coiled  in  rest. 
These  delicate  lines  are  where  darting  lizards  have 
dragged  their  tails.  Around  the  base  of  that  hum- 
mock some  dainty-footed  prowler  has  dimpled  the 
sand  with  its  trotting  feet,  its  captured  prey  hang- 
ing from  its  mouth,  as  we  know  by  a  lengthening 
mark  paralleling  the  animaPs  trail.  Under  the 
shadow  of  this  shrub,  a  dish-like  depression  marks 
the  resting  place  of  a  jack  rabbit,  and  here  are  the 
impressions  of  his  flying  feet  when  something 
frightened  him  from  his  retreat. 


IV.    IN  PALM  CANON 

One  afternoon  of  early  March,  Dutch  Jake,  the 
prospector,  blew  into  Palm  Springs  from  the  Little 
Morongos.  He  undid  the  packs  of  his  three  burros, 
turned  the  animals  loose  in  somebody's  abandoned 
field  back  of  the  school-house,  and  set  up  his  cone- 
shaped  miner's  tent  among  the  mesquits  near  the 
post-office.  Then  he  borrowed  a  Dutch-oven  from 
a  man  who  was  camping  near  the  same  center  of 
life  and  news,  and  prepared  to  enjoy  the  sweets  of 

31 


TJNDEB  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

civilization  for  a  season.  He  was  a  stout,  little  fig- 
ure of  a  man,  and  his  English  was  a  cross  between 
that  of  Weber  and  Fields  and  Hans  Breitmann. 

"I  haf  located  some  purty  goot  prospects  in  dem 
Leetle  Moronkos,"  he  remarked  comfortably,  as  he 
crossed  his  short  legs  and  loaded  his  pipe,  "unt  I 
might  haf  vent  oop  to  Los  Angeles  unt  sold  out  at 
a  purty  fair  figger;  ofer  I  always  make  von  damn 
fool  of  myself  in  dot  town  unt  lose  money;  so  I 
fought  I'd  yust  come  here  unt  gif  de  burros  a 
chance  to  browse  a  bit,  unt  soak  myself  in  dem  In- 
jun Springs  yonder  for  my  rheumatism.  It  only 
costs  two  bits  efery  time  you  go  in,  unt  you  can 
shtay  as  long  as  you  please,  unt,  mein  Gott,  I  can 
afford  dot." 

So  it  happened  when  we  decided  to  visit  Palm 
Canon  and  camp  there  for  a  day  or  two,  we  were 
referred  to  Dutch  Jake  as  the  man  likeliest  to  trans- 
port our  outfit. 

"Pollum  Canon,  eh?  Yes,  I  haf  been  oop  Pollum 
Canon  already  a  goot  many  years  ago.  It  vasn't  no 
goot  den  unt  it  ain't  no  goot  now — dot  is  for  min- 
eral, unt  de  vater  gets  bad  in  summer  time,  ven  de 
snow  has  all  run  off  de  mountain ;  ofer  now  you  can 
drink  it  veil  enough.  You  vants  to  make  some  pic- 
tures, eh?  Veil,  some  peoples  does  dot.  All  right, 
I  take  you.  It'll  be  fifty  cents  a  day  apiece  for  de 
burros,  unt  my  time  is  wort'  somet'ing  to  tend  camp 
for  you,  ain't  it?  We  make  it  two  dollars  unt  a 
halluf  a  day  for  de  whole  outfit;  I  pack  your  stuff 

32 


THE  DESEETS 

on  Jinny  and  Chappo,  lint  de  lady  can  ride  old  Jack. 
Me  unt  you  vill  valk,  mister.  Vot  you  fink?" 

The  price  did  not  seem  out  of  the  way  for  what 
we  were  to  get,  so  the  bargain  was  closed;  and  by 
seven  the  next  morning  the  kyacks  of  the  two  pack 
donkeys  were  filled  with  three  days'  provisions;  the 
blankets  and  Sylvia's  little  mattress  were  roped  se- 
curely on  top;  the  shovel,  the  axe,  the  rifle  and  the 
canteen  were  hung  ready  to  the  hand  if  needed ;  and 
we  were  off. 

"I  feel  as  though  the  bottom  of  thirty  centuries 
had  dropped  out  and  we  were  back  in  the  time  of  the 
patriarchs,"  laughed  Sylvia  when,  perched  upon  old 
Jack,  she  saw  the  desert  open  before  her ;  I,  staff  in 
hand,  trudging  along  in  the  sand  at  her  side  as  she 
rode. 

What  a  morning  it  was !  The  dewless  coolness  of 
the  spring  night  was  still  in  the  air  and  the  sun 
felt  good  upon  our  backs ;  birds  were  singing  in  the 
boughs  of  the  mesquits  upon  which  the  first  tender 
green  leaves  of  the  year  were  just  appearing;  the 
subtle  fragrance  of  the  pink  abronias  which  covered 
the  ground  in  places  with  sheets  of  vivid  color,  filled 
our  nostrils  with  delight.  Sylvia  and  I  sang  to- 
gether the  duets  of  our  teens,  and  Chappo  in  whom 
eight  years  of  desert  life  had  not  quenched  the 
frolicsomeness  of  youth,  cantered  playfully  down 
every  declivity  of  the  trail  and  kicked  up  his  in- 
fantile heels  at  the  bottom.  Even  Jake,  stumping 
along  in  the  rear  of  the  cavalcade,  smoked  the  pipe 

33 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

of  contentment,  and  found  nothing  to  grumble 
about. 

Except  for  those  occasional  ebullitions  of  friski- 
ness  on  Chappo's  part,  the  donkeys  were  deliberate 
travelers,  and  Jake  being  rheumatic  and  sixty  was 
not  the  man  to  hurry  them;  so  the  sun  was  well  up 
the  sky  when  we  finally  left  the  open  desert  behind 
us  and  passed  into  a  sandy  gulf  that  swept  in  be- 
tween gradually  narrowing  walls  of  burnished  gran- 
itic rock  toward  Palm  Canon's  mouth.  The  trail 
steepened,  the  sands  grew  heavier  and  heavier  to 
the  foot,  and  the  intense  midday  heat,  unrelieved  by 
any  breeze,  not  only  blazed  down  with  torrid  fierce- 
ness upon  our  heads  but  was  reflected  upward  from 
the  scorching  sand  into  our  blistering  faces.  The 
burros  drooped  their  patient  heads;  even  Chappo 
forgot  that  he  was  young,  and  devoted  himself 
strictly  to  the  business  of  "getting  there. "  Jake, 
perspiring  at  every  pore,  mopped  his  red  face  with 
his  redder  bandanna  and  swore  softly. 

"Gott  in  Himmel,  dis  is  disagree 'ble,"  he  ob- 
served. 

Then  we  climbed  a  final  ridge  of  rock  and  sand, 
and  descending  a  broad  sunny  way,  all  glorious  with 
purple  lupines  and  crimson  monkey-flowers,  with 
golden  eriophyllums,  white  desert  daisies  and  mot- 
tled mohaveas,  we  came  to  the  mouth  of  the  canon 
of  the  palms,  where  a  cool  breeze  fresh  from  the 
snowy  summit  of  the  great  mountain  came  out  to 
greet  us,  and  the  sound  of  water  flowing  amid  reeds 

34 


THE  DESEETS 

fell  like  music  on  our  ears.  In  another  moment,  the 
dripping  canteen  was  passing  from  lip  to  lip,  and 
the  burros,  lined  up  at  the  edge  of  the  stream,  had 
plunged  three  white  noses  deep  in  the  flood. 

It  is  an  impressive  sight  that  confronts  us,  when, 
our  thirst  relieved,  we  begin  to  look  about  us — a 
sight  more  suggestive  of  the  Orient  than  of  the 
United  States.  Palms,  palms,  everywhere,  varying 
in  size  from  the  seedling  growths  of  a  single  leaf  or 
two  clutched  like  fans  in  the  fist  of  earth,  to  stately 
veterans  of  centuries,  whose  slender,  tapering  trunks 
rise  straight  as  arrows  into  the  air  to  a  height  of 
ninety  or  a  hundred  feet,  each  summit  crowned  with 
a  great  tuft  of  green  fan-shaped  leaves  rippling  and 
glistening  in  the  sunshine  which  habitually  pervades 
this  open  canon.  The  older  trees  are  bare  of  trunk 
to  within  a  few  feet  of  the  verdant  crown,  where  a 
fringe  of  dead  foliage  hanging  head  downward 
forms  a  picturesque  brown  thatch  beneath  the  green. 
The  young  palms  are  thus  thatched  to  the  ground, 
looking  as  though  clad  in  brown  petticoats.  Here, 
as  beneath  a  mother's  protecting  skirt,  the  small 
animal  life  of  the  canon — "shnakes  unt  varmints," 
in  Jake's  classification — is  prone  to  hide  itself. 

For  a  distance  of  nearly  two  miles  these  tropic 
groves  fill  the  bed  of  the  gorge,  which  is  so  tor- 
tuous, however,  that  to  get  an  idea  of  them  in  any- 
thing like  their  entirety,  one  needs  to  clamber  up 
the  canon's  bare  side — no  very  difficult  matter. 
There  from  some  vantage  point,  one  may  look  down 

35 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

and  watch  the  winding  procession  of  the  palms  as 
they  crowd  out  from  the  mountain's  inner  solitudes 
and  follow  the  course  of  the  hurrying  torrent  till 
trees  and  water  alike  are  swallowed  up  by  the  all- 
consuming  desert.  Few  other  trees  besides  these 
grow  in  the  alkaline  soil  of  the  stream  *s  marge,  and 
none  at  all  on  the  barren,  rocky  sides  of  the  canon 
which  rise  steeply  towards  the  pines  and  snowfields 
of  the  mountain's  summit,  ten  thousand  feet  above. 

With  the  scorching  memory  of  the  desert  still 
fresh  within  us,  we  find  it  a  heavenly  place  in  the 
cool  shadow  of  the  palms  and  beside  these  crystal 
waters,  which  drop  now  in  musical  cascades  and  now 
are  gathered  in  still  pools  reflecting  their  sedgy 
fringes;  now  flow  in  open  sunlight,  and  again  are 
lost  in  quivering  beds  of  cat-tails  and  rushes  and 
thickets  of  groundsel.  Wild  flowers  of  brililant  hue 
brighten  the  tiny,  sandy  beaches  that  form  here  and 
there  in  the  shelter  of  the  great  rocks — flowers  of 
compelling  charm,  yet  in  this  out-of-the-way  part  of 
the  world  so  unknown  to  men  that  most  of  them  are 
nameless  save  in  the  harsh  lexicon  of  science.  A 
faint  fragrance  like  tuberose  fills  the  air — the  per- 
fume from  millions  of  tiny  blossoms  of  a  leafless 
mistletoe  that  makes  witches'  brooms  in  the  mes- 
quite.  In  such  an  environment  we  made  our  camp. 

Botanists  have  given  to  the  palm  which  is  so  char- 
acteristic a  feature  of  this  canon,  the  name  of 
Washingtonia,  in  honor  of  our  country's  first  Presi- 
dent, and  it  has  been  extensively  introduced  as  an 

36 


THE  DESEETS 

ornamental  tree  throughout  Southern  California 
where  it  is  a  familiar  object  along  public  highways 
and  in  private  grounds.  To  the  Indians,  in  the  old 
days,  it  served  a  number  of  purposes ;  the  leafstalks 
furnished  material  for  bows,  the  leaves  themselves 
made  a  staple  thatch  for  wickiups,  and  were  utilized 
to  some  extent  also  in  basket  weaving ;  but  the  great 
service  of  the  palm  to  the  redmen  was  as  a  yielder 
of  food.  The  fruit  is  a  small  berry-like  body  con- 
sisting of  an  exceedingly  thin  layer  of  sweetish  pulp 
enveloping  a  stone  that  is  almost  the  whole  thing. 
It  is  borne  in  slender  clusters  depending  from  long, 
pendulous  stalks  thrust  out  from  amid  the  leaves,  re- 
minding one  of  gigantic  bunches  of  chicken  grapes. 

A  forest  ranger,  who  dropped  into  our  camp  one 
evening,  a  graduate  of  some  Eastern  university  and 
exceedingly  pleased  to  have  someone  to  talk  to,  had 
a  good  deal  to  say  about  the  palm  and  the  Indian. 

"You  see,"  he  remarked,  sipping  with  extreme 
relish  a  cup  of  tea  which  Sylvia  had  brewed  for  him, 
adding,  to  his  astonishment,  a  slice  of  lemon,  "  be- 
fore the  Government  got  to  cooping  them  up  in  res- 
ervations and  making  up  their  resultant  deficiency 
of  food  with  charity  rations  of  bad  flour  and  what- 
not, the  Indians  on  the  root-hog-or-die  principle, 
had  developed  the  food  value  of  the  desert  flora  to 
a  wonderful  degree.  The  Coahuilla  Indians,  for  in- 
stance, who  occupied  this  part  of  the  desert,  dis- 
covered a  way  to  get  nutrition  out  of  these  palm 
berries  which  a  white  man  wouldn't  think  fit  for  his 

37 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

pigs.  As  I  understand  it,  each  family  owned  a  cer- 
tain bunch  of  trees,  and  every  year  when  the  fruit 
was  ripe,  the  whole  lot  of  them  from  the  grand- 
father to  the  latest  papoose  would  go  on  a  picnic  to 
the  canon  and  camp  under  their  trees  just  as  the 
Piutes  do  in  the  central  Sierra  Nevada  when  pine- 
nuts  are  ripe.  Then  with  long  poles  made  by  splic- 
ing shorter  ones  together,  they  battered  down  the 
hanging  clusters  by  the  bushel,  and  gathered  them 
into  baskets.  Some  of  the  fruit  was  consumed  fresh 
on  the  spot,  but  there  is  not  much  to  eat  outside  the 
stone,  and  most  of  the  harvest  was  carried  home, 
dried  in  the  sun,  and  then  pounded  in  a  stone  mor- 
tar until  the  kernels  of  the  pits  were  ground  to 
meal. 

"Now  there  was  a  queer  thing  about  this  Indian 
business, "  he  continued,  lighting  his  pipe,  while 
Jake  threw  some  fresh  wood  on  the  fire,  and  we  all 
watched  the  cheerful  glow  rise  and  fall  against  the 
blackness  of  the  night.  "You  may  have  noticed  that 
every  big  palm  you  have  seen  in  the  canon  has  the 
trunk  more  or  less  blackened  and  charred,  indicat- 
ing that  at  some  period  in  its  life,  it  has  been  on 
fire.  That  was  Indian  work.  For  some  reason  or 
other,  the  Coahuillas  had  a  fashion  of  periodically 
firing  the  trees,  which  could  be  easily  accomplished 
by  putting  a  spark  to  the  hanging  dead  leaves,  and 
that  is  why  the  older  trees  are  all  bare  of  trunk, 
while  the  young  ones  are  thatched  with  the  dead 
leaves  as  Nature  intends  them  to  be.  Now  the  ques- 

38 


THE  DESERTS 

tion  is  what  were  those  trees  fired  for?  Some  say, 
it  was  simply  with  a  view  of  increasing  the  fruitful- 
ness  of  the  trees,  just  as  my  old  grandfather  down 
in  Maine  used  regularly  to  burn  over  his  blueberry 
patch  to  improve  the  crop.  Maybe  it  was.  There's 
nobody  to  tell  us  now." 

The  ranger  paused  while  he  puffed  hard  at  his 
pipe  which  had  almost  gone  out. 

"  There  are  some  old  Indians  in  the  reservation  at 
Palm  Springs,"  remarked  one  of  us;  "why  doesn't 
somebody  ask  them?" 

"Maybe  somebody  has,  and  maybe  they  told  him 
what  IVe  just  told  you.  But  after  a  man  has 
knocked  about  the  Southwest  for  a  few  years,  he 
finds  that  an  Indian  doesn't  tell  every  Tom,  Dick 
and  Harry  of  a  white  man  all  he  knows.  This  is 
particularly  the  case  with  anything  touching  his  re- 
ligious views  and  rites,  and  fire  is  very  closely  as- 
sociated with  these,  in  the  life  of  the  desert  Indian. 
Now  there  is  another  explanation  of  these  burnt 
trunks,  which  connects  them  with  a  religious  rite, 
and  which,  foolish  as  it  may  seem,  is  to  my  mind 
entirely  in  keeping  with  the  Indian's  attitude  to- 
ward the  world  of  spirit.  When  a  man  dies,  the 
Indian  thinks  his  spirit  has  a  long  journey  to  take 
in  order  to  reach  his^final  home — his  happy  hunting- 
grounds.  This,  in  a  desert  Indian's  view,  is  natu- 
rally a  hard  journey,  sandy,  sunny  and  hot,  in  the 
progress  of  which  the  soul  will  cry  out  mightily  for 
shade.  So,  on  the  occasion  of  a  man's  death,  what 

39 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

more  natural  than  to  set  fire  to  one  of  Ms  trees  in 
order  that  its  spirit,  thus  released,  may  accompany 
the  spirit  of  the  man  and  refresh  him  with  its  cool- 
ing shade  as  the  burning  sands  are  crossed?  I  have 
always  been  friendly,  myself,  to  this  explanation  of 
the  burnt  trees;  for  Indians,  when  it  comes  to  the 
question  of  spirits,  go  the  whole  figure,  and  believe 
that  even  the  inanimate  objects  of  Nature  have  per- 
sonal souls  within  them." 

"And  why  shouldn't  they  be  as  near  right  as 
we?"  said  Sylvia  sympathetically. 

A  strange,  tremulous  sigh  shivered  down  the 
canon,  and  the  wind  which  had  suddenly  risen, 
swept  in  a  gust  like  an  impalpable  football  kicked 
by  some  invisible  jinnee  of  the  mountain,  past  our 
camp.  It  stirred  the  fire  into  a  momentary  fever 
of  brightness,  and  rolling  on  down  the  gorge,  died 
away  in  the  distance. 

Instinctively  I  put  out  my  hand  toward  the  gun. 
The  fire  flame,  unduly  stimulated,  sank  down  and 
out ;  and  again  that  tremulous  sigh  was  uttered  from 
the  upper  darkness. 

"Doesn't  that  convert  you  to  the  Coahuilla  re- 
ligion?" asked  the  ranger,  rising  to  go — had  the 
light  been  better  we  could  have  seen  a  twinkle  in 
his  eye.  "It  is  the  voice  of  Tauquitz,  demon  of 
the  night  wind,  demanding  a  victim.  Now  you 
know  why  no  Indian  can  be  persuaded  to  be  out  on 
San  Jacinto  after  dark." 

"Dot's  all  imaxination, "  remarked  Dutch  Jake, 

40 


THE  DESERTS 

shaking  out  his  blankets,  and  hanging  his  hat  on  a 
bush — he  was  ready  for  bed — " don't  you  peoples 
know  an  owl  ven  you  hears  him?" 

V.     SPEING  FLOWEES  OF  THE  DESEET 

When  the  first  alder  catkins  by  Eastern  brooks 
are  shaking  themselves  free  from  the  bonds  of  win- 
ter, and  hepaticas  push  furry  buds  up  through  the 
brown  leaves  in  sunny  pockets  of  their  native  woods, 
when  field  and  forest  are  rejoicing  in  the  impulse 
of  a  re-awakening  life,  God  smiles  upon  His  desert, 
too.  Then  for  a  few  brief  weeks,  the  pallid  sands 
blush  with  a  varied  floral  life  of  rare  loveliness. 
At  least  it  is  usually  thus  early — that  is,  in  the  first 
days  of  March— that  the  Colorado  Desert  breaks 
into  bloom. 

The  flowers  of  the  desert  are  both  perennial  and 
annual.  The  former  include  shrubs,  the  yuccas,  the 
multitudinous  cactuses  and  the  few  stunted  trees — 
the  period  of  their  blooming  extending  further  into 
the  burning  year  than  that  of  the  annuals.  It  is 
these  latter  which  are  responsible  for  much  of  the 
evanescent  glory  of  the  springtime  wastes.  They 
bloom,  mature  their  seeds,  sow  them  and  perish  in 
the  oven  of  the  sun's  heat,  all  within  a  period  of 
three  or  four  weeks.  Then  for  months  their  scat- 
tered seeds  lie  dormant  upon  the  desert,  buried  now 
and  now  uncovered,  and  again  caught  and  borne 
hither  and  yon  upon  the  wings  of  wind  storms,  un- 

41 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

til  the  rains  of  the  latter  year  quicken  them  into 
life.  Though  there  are  myriads  of  these  annuals  in 
bloom  every  spring,  so  that  in  places  the  sands  are 
radiant  with  their  colors,  this  gray  background  set- 
ting off  their  brightness  rarely,  each  plant  usually 
stands  isolated  from  its  neighbor  with  much  barren 
space  about  it.  The  soil  is  so  deficient  in  moisture 
that  two  might  die  in  dividing  what  one  could  live 
on.  Sometimes,  to  be  sure,  a  few  plants  in  a  wide 
circle  of  sand  form  a  communal  clump  of  inter- 
mingled stems  about  the  base  of  some  shrub,  and 
sharing  one  another's  shadows,  make  common  cause 
against  the  remorseless  sun.  Thus,  perhaps  though 
each  one's  share  of  moisture  is  reduced,  the  evapo- 
ration from  the  leaves  is  less  rapid.  Then,  too,  the 
leaf-droppings  from  these  little  societies  tend  to 
form  a  humus,  by  which  the  life  rooted  in  it  is  the 
better  nourished.  So  though  the  desert  in  spring 
is  a  garden  of  bloom,  the  blossoms  are  but  infre- 
quently to  be  expected  thick  over  the  ground  like 
violets  or  buttercups  in  an  Eastern  meadow,  but 
more  usually  they  are  dotted  about,  like  separate 
jewels  each  in  a  generous  width  of  setting,  enhancing 
its  individual  beauty. 

One  can  hardly  regard  these  exquisite  creations, 
conceived  and  brought  forth  under  a  pitiless  sun, 
without  feelings  of  awe,  as  for  purified  unearthly 
presences  born  of  elemental  fire.  Some  of  them  are 
of  such  delicacy  of  hue  and  texture  that  they  seem 
created  less  for  the  gardens  of  earth  than  for  the 

42 


THE  DESEBTS 

lornment  of  that  "far,  spiritual  city,"  where  only 
Galahads  of  our  race  may  touch  them.  Of  all 
none,  perhaps,  is  more  ethereal  than  an  evening 
primrose  a  few  inches  high,  which  lives  in  pure  sand 
and  of  afternoons  spreads  to  the  light  its  great, 
creamy  white  flowers,  glowing  with  yellow  at  their 
hearts.  Seen  from  afar,  they  are  like  flecks  of  foam 
resting  upon  the  long  ridges  and  billows  into  which 
the  wind  whips  the  desert  sands,  and  their  delicious 
fragrance  is  one  of  the  few  sweet  smells  of  the  arid 
regions.  Hardly  less  delicate  are  the  silky  banners 
of  the  mohavea,  which  might  be  taken  by  the  un- 
initiated for  an  orchid's  flowers — two-lipped  and 
yellowish-white,  splashed  with  purple  and  with  a 
purple  palate.  The  blossoms  of  the  desert  aster, 
clothed  in  lavender  and  gold,  belong  to  the  same 
rare  fellowship,  in  which  are  to  be  included,  too, 
certain  gilias  in  tender  blue,  and  one  of  so  shy  a 
shade  of  pink  that  your  very  look  seems  to  make 
the  lowly  blossoms  shrink  into  the  sand  on  which 
they  rest.  And  here  in  a  lilac  garb  is  a  larkspur, 
of  all  flowers  the  least  looked  for  in  these  desolate 
wastes,  associated  as  it  is  in  our  minds  with  the 
cool  gardens  of  "God's  country,"  with  memories  of 
home  and  of  mother's  love. 

The  abronias  or  wild  verbenas,  among  the  most 
abundant  of  the  desert  annuals,  are  of  a  less  fine 
clay.  Their  trailing  hemispheres  of  bloom  are 
sometimes  the  daintiest  of  pinks,  but  quite  often  an 
earthy  strain  is  present,  which  develops  into  a  dull, 

43 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

spiritless    magenta.     Quite    a    different    touch 
given  to  this  kaleidoscope  of  refined  color  by  th< 
waxy  fruit  of  the  desert  mistletoe — berries  whic] 
are  like  exquisite  rosy  pearls,  paling  to  a  delicate 
cream-color. 

But  in  many  of  the  desert  flowers  it  is  not  so 
much  the  delicacy  of  the  tints,  as  their  brilliancy 
that  attracts  the  eye.  On  the  Mojave  in  May  comes 
an  orange-scarlet  tulip,  so  vivid  that  no  ordinary 
paint  of  man's  concocting  can  reproduce  its  fieri- 
ness.  Its  glowing  cups  of  flame  sit  close  to  the 
ground,  each  usually  with  its  one  grass-like  leaf 
dead  beside  it,  shriveled  up  by  the  persistent  sun- 
shine in  which  the  flower  luxuriates.  The  tenacity 
of  life  in  these  flowers  is  remarkable.  Eight  days 
after  we  had  plucked  and  packed  a  number  of  them 
in  a  press  to  dry,  we  found  one  perfectly  fresh.  It 
had  been  a  bud  when  packed  up,  and,  in  spite  of  the 
suffocating  darkness  of  its  captivity,  had  gone  on 
with  its  work  and  opened.  Only  a  little  less  fiery 
are  the  blossoms  of  the  beloperone  clumps.  Early 
in  the  year  the  tangle  of  their  white,  sinuous 
branches  bursts  into  hundreds  of  narrow  tongues  of 
mock  flame,  all  the  more  realistic,  because  the  stems 
are  then  leafless,  and  in  appearance  a  mass  of  in- 
flammable brush. 

Composites  on  the  desert  are  as  characteristic  of 
spring  as  in  the  East  they  are  of  autumn,  and  are 
of  almost  every  hue.  The  yellow  of  some  of  these, 
such  as  the  desert  ox-eye,  rising  out  of  clusters  of 

"  44 


THE  DESERTS 


ashen-gray  leaves,  is  as  a  burst  of  sunshine  out  of 
a  cloud.  Most  wonderful  of  all,  perhaps,  though 
not  at  all  showy,  is  a  small  composite  like  a  dwarf 
aster  with  white  rays  and  a  golden  disk.  It  has  no 
common  name  but  botanists  have  burdened  it  with 
the  title  of  monoptilon  bellidiforme.  Each  flower 
head  is  composed  of  perhaps  fifteen  or  twenty 
florets,  each  of  which  produces  a  single  dry  seed; 
and  every  spring  tens  of  thousands  of  these  little 
plants  come  into  being,  making  myriads  of  seeds 
thus  produced.  Now  the  marvel  of  it  is  that  on  the 
per  edge  of  each  of  those  countless  seeds  is  borne 
ne  tiny  bristle  which  drops  with  the  seed.  No  man 
knows  what  that  bristle  is  for,  though  your  man  of 
science  will  learnedly  explain  it  as  a  degenerate 
pappus,  of  which  the  down  of  a  thistle  represents 
the  perfect  development;  but  is  it  not  wonderful 
at  Nature,  with  all  she  has  to  do  in  this  workaday 
rid — crops  to  raise  and  all  the  machinery  of  the 
universe  to  keep  in  order — never  forgets  to  set  that 
solitary  bristle  on  each  of  those  little  florets  out 
there  on  the  Mojave  Desert? 

tMany  of  the  desert  flowers  are  odd  as  well  as 
autiful,  showing  forth  in  this  pure  wilderness  of 
the  desert  unlooked-for  resemblances  to  many  things 
of  man's  complex  civilization.  There  is  the  sala- 
zaria,  for  instance,  with  velvety  blue-and-white- 
hooded  corolla  emerging  from  a  loose,  papery  calyx 
and  looking  in  outline  astonishingly  like  a  bonneted 
Quaker  lady  of  the  olden  time.  And  there  is  calyp- 

45 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

tridium  monandmm  (we  would  write  its  English 
name  if  it  had  one)  a  Wild  West  cousin  of  the  fa- 
miliar "pusley."  It  does  not  drop  its  petals,  but 
when  the  seed  vessel  is  set,  lo  and  behold!  the 
withered  corolla  appears  like  a  limp  liberty  cap 
swinging  at  the  tip  of  the  slender  red  pod.  There 
is,  too,  a  remarkable  milkweed  with  blossoms  of  im- 
perial purple  so  smothered  in  white  wool  that  the 
individual  flowers  suggest  rubies  lying  in  a  bed  of 
jeweler's  cotton.  And  there  is  nama  demissum, 
which  grows  in  a  circle  flat  upon  the  sand  and  re- 
sembles a  floral  wheel  with  green  spokes  and  a 
Tyrian  purple  tire.  The  list  might  be  continued  in- 
definitely. 

The  struggle  for  moisture  in  the  desert  leads  the 
roots  of  many  plants  straight  downward.  Those  of 
the  spiny  dalea,  a  shrub  or  little  tree  whose  in- 
tricacy of  slender  branchlets  becomes  clothed  in 
spring  with  a  royal  garment  of  a  myriad  purple 
blossoms,  are  said  sometimes  to  descend  twenty  feet 
or  more  in  quest  of  water.  An  old  desert  dweller 
once  told  us  that,  desiring  one  of  these  trees  as  an 
ornament  near  his  house,  he  set  an  Indian  to  dig 
it  up,  cautioning  him  on  no  account  to  break  the  tap 
root.  As  he  rode  to  and  fro  on  various  errands 
he  noticed  the  Indian  patiently  digging  deeper  and 
deeper,  his  body  gradually  getting  lower  and  lower 
in  the  big  hole,  until  a  couple  of  days  afterward  the 
black  head  of  the  child  of  the  desert  was  just  visible 
at  the  level  of  the  ground.  Thinking  the  tree  had 

46 


ca 
p& 


THE  DESERTS 

earned  a  right  to  its  station,  he  told  the  red  man  to 
let  it  stand. 

The  cactuses,  on  the  other  hand,  those  best  known 
of  desert  plants,  have  but  a  scanty  root  system,  and 
one  can  without  much  difficulty  topple  some  sorts 
over  with  his  foot.  Their  aqueous  reservoirs  being 
within  their  succulent  joints  and  stems  above 
ground,  they  do  not  need  long  roots  to  fetch  and 

rry  for  them.  There  is  a  great  variety  of  the 
cactus  blooms,  and  some  that  are  not  particularly 
beautiful  in  themselves  possess  a  charm  in  their  ar- 
rangement. Of  these  latter  the  greenish-yellow 
flowers  of  the  strange,  cylindrical  bisnagas  or  bar- 
rel cactus,  are  examples.  They  form  a  circle  upon 
the  spiny  top  of  the  keg-like  plant — a  chaplet  set 
upon  those  repellent  brows  by  the  hand  of  a  Love 
that  must  indeed  be  divine.  The  spines  of  the  cac- 
tuses are  a  fascinating  study.  There  is  much  va- 
riety in  them,  and  often  great  beauty.  Their 
placing  upon  the  surface  of  the  plants  is  no  hap- 
hazard arrangement,  as  might  appear  to  the  unob- 
serving,  but  is  in  accord  with  an  orderly  plan. 
Those  of  the  bisnaga  consist  of  regularly  disposed 
bundles,  the  central  spines  of  each  of  which  are  very 
prominent,  four  in  number  and  transversely  ridged, 
one  of  the  four  being  usually  curved  in  the  shape  oft 
a  great  fishhook.  These  spines  are  remarkably 
charming,  with  colors  that  hold  something  of  the 
desert's  own  fascination — pinks  and  amethysts  and 
creamy  yellows.  Strike  them  with  your  finger  as 

47 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

you  would  a  jew's-harp,  and  they  return  melody, 
different  tones  issuing  from  different  sorts  of 
spines. 

Miles  upon  miles  of  the  desert  plains  are  staked 
with  that  strange  Ishmael  of  plants,  the  tree-yucca, 
whose  shaggy  arms,  clutching  a  thousand  bunched 
daggers  of  leaves,  are  raised  against  the  world.  As* 
one  rides  across  the  Mojave,  where  these  trees 
grow,  they  outline  themselves  against  the  sky  in  a 
score  of  fantastic  shapes — pitchforks,  tridents, 
mailed  fists  and  colossal  battledores  whose  meshes 
are  branches.  Sometimes  they  resemble  writhing, 
misshapen  crosses,  as  though  marking  the  uneasy 
graves  of  men  whom  the  sands  have  swallowed  up. 
A  sullen  tree,  this,  which  moves  stiffly  and  grace- 
lessly  when  the  wind  shakes  it,  like  a  stubborn  man 
in  the  hands  of  adverse  fortune — yielding  indeed, 
but  only  because  forced  to  yield.  Nevertheless,  to 
the  tops  of  this  forbidding  tree,  the  gentle  doves  of 
the  desert  trustfully  fly  and  lodge  and  find  comfort 
there,  uttering  thence,  to  the  desert's  mystery,  the 
mystery  of  their  own  melancholy  notes.  From  the 
midst  of  the  cruel  leaves,  too,  there  rise,  in  season, 
panicles  of  bloom,  creamy  white  bells  adroop,  pure 
as  the  spirits  of  ^triumphant  mortals  who,  out  of 
the  valley  of  affliction,  have  come  up  into  the  sun- 
light of  heavenly  peace. 


THE  MOUNTAINS 


; 

ti, 

5 


I.    UNDER  THE  STABS  AT  CROCKER'S 

HE   differences  between  camping  in  Eastern 
woods  and  Western  are  great  and  must  be 
rne  in  mind  by  all  who  attempt  an  outdoor  life  in 
alifornia.    In  the  East  even  in  summer  the  camper 
.ust  be  prepared  for  stormy  days,  sudden  showers, 
ot  waves  and  cool  snaps,  gnats  and  mosquitoes, 
amp  ground  and  malaria.    In  California  woods, 
hile  the  long  rainless   summer  and  the  equable 
imate  make  it  needless  to  consider  these  particular 
atters,   there   are    other   things   to    be   provided 
inst:  thought  must  be  had  for  the  water  supply, 
od  springs  being  much  less  frequent  than  in  the 
ast;  unremitting  care  must  be  exercised  against 
ring  the  forest,  which  by  midsummer  has  become 
veritable  tinderbox  of  dryness ;  and  in  some  locali- 
ties where  the  inexperienced  Easterner  would  look 
r  pleasant  coolness   on  account  of  elevation  or 
her  feature  of  situation,  there  is  an  excessive  dry 
heat  which  is  a  bar  to  camping  with  any  comfort. 
All   things   considered,   however,   the   California 
rest  is  a  paradise  for  camping,  and  it  is  not  neces- 
sary that  one  have  any  great  store  of  money  or 
rength  to  make  a  success  of  it ;  but  some  judgment 

49 


UNDEE  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFOENIA 

and  good  advice  are  needful  in  the  selection  of  a 
site.  No  more  charming  spot  for  a  summer  camp 
can  be  found  than  the  neighborhood  of  Crocker's 
Station  on  the  Big  Oak  Flat  Stage  route,  Tuolumne 
County,  among  the  sugar  pines  of  the  Sierra  mid- 
region.  From  this  point  as  a  base — it  lies  at  an 
altitude  of  forty-five  hundred  feet  above  sea  level 
—numerous  trips  may  be  taken :  to  the  small  grove 
of  Tuolumne  Big  Trees,  six  miles ;  to  the  Yosemite, 
twenty-three  miles ;  to  the  Hetch  Hetchy,  a  less 
known  but  almost  equally  beautiful  Yosemite  upon 
a  smaller  scale,  about  seventeen  miles ;  or  along  the 
old  Tioga  Eoad  fifty-six  miles  to  the  Tioga  mine, 
or  further  by  trail  and  pack  animals  across  the  High 
Sierra,  snow-clad  even  in  midsummer,  and  down 
ftie  eastern  slope  to  the  Mono  country — an  alluring 
land  of  desert,  extinct  volcanoes,  lost  mines  and 
Piute  Indians. 

This  is  the  land  of  the  pedestrian  and  the  moun- 
tain climber;  and  all  summer  long  parties  big  and 
little  and  of  both  sexes,  their  blankets  and  camp  kits 
slung  upon  their  backs,  come  gaily  up  from  the  cities 
of  the  coast  and  the  plain,  from  the  schools  and 
counting  houses  and  shops,  living  Arcadian  days 
and  weeks  in  shady  canons  by  never-failing  waters, 
and  sleeping  beneath  the  sky.  The  prose  poet  who 
has  written  this  region  into  enduring  literature  is 
John  Muir,  and  to  go  mountaineering  through  the 
Sierra  country  with  his  "  Mountains  of  Calif ornia" 

50 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

or  "Our  National  Parks"  in  one's  satchel  is  a 
liberal  education. 

Stopping  at  such  a  place  as  Crocker's  for  a  few 
weeks,  one  has  an  opportunity  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  men  of  national  reputation — writers,  scien- 
tists, college  professors,  artists — as  they  call  and 
linger  here  in  outing  garb  on  their  way  in  and  out 
of  the  higher  mountains;  to  say  nothing  of  others 
of  lesser  note,  men  and  women  of  culture  and  knowl- 
edge of  the  great  world.  This  makes  the  homelike 
hostelry  a  peculiarly  pleasant  abiding  place  for 
those  who  like  their  scenery  mixed  with  well-bred 
human  companionship  and  intelligent  talk. 

«  There  is  a  railroad  that  starts  in  at  Oakdale  on 
e  Southern  Pacific,  and  climbs  the  lower  slopes 
of  the  Sierra,  passing  close  to  Columbia  where  Bret 
Harte  taught  school,  and  Tuttletown  where  Mark 
Twain  "tended  store."  It  has  stations  at  Angel's 
and  Jimtown,  and  puffs  along  within  hailing  dis- 
tance of  Murphy's,  all  of  which  classic  spots  are 
still  as  much  alive  as  when  "The  Luck  of  Soaring 
Camp"  was  written,  though  their  modern  life  flows 
with  a  more  subdued  current  than  in  the  fitful  days 
of  the  Gold  Fever.  Those  who  want  to  get  the  most 
out  of  the  mountains,  may  start  in  at  Chinese  Camp 
on  this  same  railroad,  and  follow  the  old  stage  road 
as  it  winds  through  a  corner  of  Bret  Harte 's  coun- 
try from  the  bare  and  gullied  foothills  honeycombed 
ith  the  exhausted  pockets  left  by  oldtime  gold 

51 


UNDEE  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

miners,  upward  through  belts  of  pale-leaved  Dig- 
ger pines  and  mossy-boled  black  oaks,  corky-barked 
and  hung  with  mistletoe,  into  the  majestic  sugar 
pines  amid  which  is  Crocker's,  forty  miles  from 
Chinese.  There  are  numerous  stopping  places  scat- 
tered along  these  forty  miles,  so  one  may  do  as  he 
chooses  about  carrying  a  camp  outfit,  unless  he  in- 
tends to  essay  the  High  Sierra.  Then,  as  it  is  pure 
wilderness  beyond  Crocker's,  he  will  need  to  fit  out 
either  there  or  at  Chinese  with  everything  requisite, 
including  a  burro  or  two  to  carry  the  packs. 

So  much  for  the  class  of  restless  campers,  who 
are  ever  on  the  move;  but  to  him  who  wishes  rest 
and  quiet,  who  has  papers  to  write  or  drawings  to 
make,  or  who  would  spend  the  summer  in  study  ab- 
solutely uninterrupted  and  untrammeled,  the  Sier- 
ras offer  an  ideal  situation,  too.  Establish  your 
camp,  as  we  did,  sufficiently  near  a  spring,  high 
enough  upon  a  hillside  to  have  some  outlook  and 
daily  view  of  the  sunset  glow  and  the  blush  of  dawn 
if  you  can  get  it,  deep  enough  in  the  woods  to  be 
shaded  from  the  ardors  of  the  midday  sun ;  and  not 
too  far  from  some  place  where  provisions  may  be 
bought.  Crocker's  afforded  us  all  these  desiderata. 

Home  people  wrote  to  us  inquiring  with  anxiety 
as  to  bugs  and  snakes.  They  referred  tremulously 
to  the  bears  and  wildcats  which  in  their  mind's  eye, 
were  ever  ready  to  spring  upon  us.  Devoted  rela- 
tives shuddered  to  think  of  the  consequences  to  us 
of  a  thunderstorm  striking  those  giant  trees.  In- 

52 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

deed  the  mere  fact  of  our  lonely  camp  in  that  dark 
and  gloomy  forest  (as  it  seemed  to  their  conven- 
tional fancies,  three  thousand  miles  away)  caused 
distress  enough  to  these  tender  hearts.  The  truth 
about  the  sugar-pine  belt  however,  is  this: 

Except  for  about  half  an  hour  near  sunset,  there 
are  no  mosquitoes,  and  then  for  only  part  of  the 
summer,  and  there  are  no  flies  at  all.  Snakes  of 
any  kind  are  practically  never  seen,  bears  and  wild- 
cats are  too  timid  to  venture  so  near  human  habita- 
tions, and  though  one  may  occasionally  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  coyote  or  a  little  gray  fox,  such  are 
more  afraid  of  the  camper  than  he  of  them.  Thun- 
der storms  there  are  none  at  this  altitude,  but  one 
may  spend  many  a  happy  summer  hour  watching 
the  massing  of  the  cumulus  clouds  over  the  distant 
High  Sierras,  where  indeed  at  ten  to  thirteen  thou- 
sand feet  above  the  sea,  electric  storms  are  frequent, 
the  muttering  of  their  thunder  being  heard  as  far 
down  as  Crocker's.  Instead  of  darkness  and  gloom 
under  the  mighty  trees,  sunlight  floods  the  forest, 
whose  floor  is  gemmed  with  myriads  of  wild  flowers 
and  relatively  free  of  under-brush.  The  trees  are 
set  well  apart,  their  trunks  rising  fifty,  seventy-five 
or  a  hundred  feet  before  a  branch  puts  out,  the  blue 
of  heaven  showing  among  their  tops.  The  ever- 
present  sunlight  sending  cheerfulness  into  every 
nook  of  the  great  woodlands,  makes  an  effect  o$ 
brightness  quite  unthinkable  to  one  who  knows  only 
the  half-light  of  the  very  different  forest  of  the 

53 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

damper  East.  And  the  nights !  nights  of  the  gods, 
indeed.  Our  camp  was  on  a  dewless  knoll,  and  as 
we  lay  in  our  blankets  under  the  open  sky,  we  looked 
up  at  stars  like  jewels  set  in  the  crowns  of  the 
gigantic  pines  and  cedars  over  us,  or  tipping  the 
branches  like  candle  flames  upon  titantic  Christmas 
trees.  Occasionally  a  gentle  breeze  passed  through 
the  forest  stirring  the  leaves  to  music ;  but  of tener 
the  nights  were  absolutely  still,  save  occasionally 
for  the  faraway  yap-yap-yap  of  coyotes,  or  the 
crashing  downward  of  an  enormous  dry  cone  from 
a  sugar  pine. 

As  we  are  not  of  the  physical  make-up  that  makes 
a  camp  equipment  pared  down  to  a  cotton  com- 
fortable and  a  frying  pan  endurable,  the  practical 
details  of  our  forest  menage  may  be  of  value  to 
those  nature  lovers,  who  like  ourselves  delight  in 
life  in  the  open  and  in  meals  taken  under  green 
boughs,  but  require  somewhat  of  the  comforts  of 
home  therewith. 

Our  tent  is  of  the  sort  pointed  at  the  top  and 
round  at  the  bottom  like  an  Indian  tepee,  and  known 
as  a  miner's  tent.  There  being  but  two  of  us,  we 
find  the  size,  which  is  twelve  feet  in  diameter  at 
bottom,  answers  our  purposes.  In  the  rainless 
summer  of  California,  we  use  it  chiefly  for  storage 
and  as  a  dressing-room,  sleeping  being  pleasanter 
in  the  open  air.  A  small  wall-tent  of  the  same  con- 
tent would  in  some  ways  be  better.  To  sleep  on, 
we  use  two  army  canvas  cots  which  are  so  strong 

54 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

that  one  can  thoroughly  relax  upon  them  without 
fear  of  collapse.  When  not  in  use  or  when  they  are 
to  be  transported,  they  are  capable  of  being  folded 
into  a  compass  not  much  greater  than  a  closed  cot- 
ton umbrella.  With  a  bed  of  pine  needles  spread 
upon  the  cots — newspapers  over  and  under  the 
needles  to  keep  out  the  cold — Navajo  blankets  laid 
over  all,  and  the  bed  covers  on  top  of  these,  there 
is  nearly  the  comfort  of  a  "real  city  bed."  We  use 
light-weight  all-wool  blankets  and  an  old  down- 
quilt.  We  take  also  with  us  a  few  muslin  sheets, 
for  on  mild  summer  nights  no  words  can  tell  the 
comfort  to  a  sensitive  skin  of  not  being  sandwiched 
directly  between  the  woolly  blankets  that  are  so  de- 
lightful in  really  cold  weather.  If  the  camp  is  to 
be  for  many  weeks,  it  pays  to  carry  a  few  brown 
linen  pillow  cases  to  save  washing,  as  the  dust  of 
the  woods  shows  very  promptly  on  white  ones. 

"And  what  about  chairs?"  asked  the  Professor, 
when  we  were  packing  our  things  in  Pasadena  for 
our  first  trip  of  this  kind, — the  Professor  too  is  a 
believer  in  comfort  in  camping. 

We  thought  we  could  knock  up  a  rustic  thing  or 
two  in  the  woods,  I  modestly  observed.  I  rather 
pride  myself  on  my  skill  in  rustic  carpentry. 

"Kustic  fiddlesticks,"  the  Professor  replied,  and 
then  instructed  us  to  buy  a  couple  of  easy  chairs 
with  high,  generous,  canvas  backs  like  steamer 
chairs,  and  canvas  seats,  the  whole  folding  snugly 
up  into  an  insignificant  compass  when  packed  for 

55 


UNDEE  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

transporting.  Any  campers'  supply  store  keeps 
them.  We  obeyed  the  Professor  and  have  blessed 
him  because  of  them,  as  often  as  the  day.  For 
week  in  and  week  out  of  a  protracted  camp,  the  only 
repose  you  get  when  not  stretched  out  on  your  cot, 
is  in  a  chair,  and  to  have  one  in  which  you  can  re- 
lax even  while  cleaning  fish  or  taking  stitches,  is  in- 
valuable. 

The  main  place,  however,  where  comfort  in  camp- 
ing comes  in  is  in  the  kitchen  department.  The 
camp  stove  to  begin  with,  must  be  good.  Maybe 
you  are  thinking  of  the  poetic  camp-fire  as  good 
enough  for  you;  but  it  is  not,  in  any  camp  of  over 
a  week's  duration.  For  the  permanent  camp,  it  is 
absolutely  necessary  to  comfort  to  have  a  sheet- 
iron  cook  stove.  The  right  sort  to  meet  the  case  can 
be  bought  of  any  camp  outfitter  and  is  light,  cheap 
and  compact,  so  as  to  be  readily  transported  either 
in  a  trunk  or  on  burro  back.  We  use  one  with  two 
holes  and  an  oven,  and  it  answers  all  practical  pur- 
poses, if  you  understand  cooking.  And  it  may  be 
said  here,  never  attempt  to  camp  at  all,  unless  some 
one  of  your  number  understands  how  to  cook  and 
thoroughly  enjoys  the  art. 

The  stove-pipe  should  be  in  two  sections  so  that 
the  smoke  may  escape  at  a  point  high  enough  not  to 
blow  in  your  eyes  when  at  work.  If  the  stove  is 
low,  have  it  placed  on  a  box  sufficiently  high,  so 
that  you  will  not  have  to  stoop.  Maintain  in  addi- 
tion to  the  stove  a  camp-fire  where  water  may  be 

56 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

heated,  and  where  green  corn,  apples  and  eggs,  if 
you  are  in  reach  of  such  luxuries,  may  be  roasted 
in  the  ashes.  A  stone  fireplace  such  as  is  de- 
scribed in  another  chapter,*  will  be  found  more  sat- 
isfactory than  an  open  camp-fire,  unless  you  are  in 
a  region  where  large  logs  are  obtainable. 

In  a  settled  camp,  too,  an  immense  amount  of 
time  and  trouble  may  be  saved  by  making  what  is 
known  as  a  hay-box — a  small  box  tightly  packed 
with  hay,  straw  or  even  newspaper  if  you  can  get 
nothing  else,  a  hole  being  left  in  the  center  of  the 
packing  for  a  small,  tightly  covered  kettle.  The 
principle  is  that  of  the  fireless  cooker,  the  article  to 
be  cooked  being  brought  thoroughly  to  a  boil  on  the 
stove,  then  placed  in  the  hay  box  with  the  lid  of  the 
kettle  tightly  fastened  to  ensure  no  escape  of  steam. 
A  hay  pillow  is  laid  on  top,  and  the  box  closed  with 
a  tightly  fitting  lid.  This  will  save  time  and  fuel 
in  preparing  dishes  which  are  improved  by  long 
steaming. 

It  is  well  to  take  as  many  cooking  utensils  as  you 
can  pack  into  the  space  allotted  to  such  matters. 
Working  with  too  few,  one  spends  an  endless 
amount  of  time  washing  and  rewashing  these  few, 
and  the  results  after  all  are  poor.  For  a  two- 
months'  camp  we  have  found  useful  the  following 
list: 

Dish  pan,  soup  kettle,  muffin-pans,  teapot,  coffee 

*  "The  Practical  Side  of  It,"  in  the  section,  "Spring  Days  in  a 
Carriage." 

57 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

pot,  tea-kettle,  pitcher,  six  small  tin  plates,  six 
large  tin  plates,  ten  or  twelve  tin  lids  of  different 
sizes,  cake  griddle,  cake  turner,  dish  mop,  two  milk 
pans,  kitchen  spoons  and  forks,  whisk  broom  for 
brushing  around  stove,  six  jelly  tumblers  with  tops 
for  packing  butter,  a  water  bucket,  and  some  cheese- 
cloth bags  for  enclosing  meat. 

Of  course  this  list  could  be  greatly  condensed  if 
needful;  one  can  bake  cakes  in  the  frying-pan  and 
dispense  with  the  griddle,  live  without  muffins  and 
keep  milk  in  the  soup-kettle  if  need  be,  but  since 
we  are  dealing  with  comfort  in  camping,  such  econo- 
mies of  space  do  not  enter  into  our  present  con- 
siderations. 

All  utensils  ought  to  be  of  granite  or  aluminum 
and  of  the  best  quality ;  you  have  to  work  with  them 
yourself,  and  must  save  time  and  strength.  The  tin 
lids  are  constantly  needed  for  the  covering  of  all 
cooked  articles,  as  the  outdoor  air  cools  hot  things 
very  quickly;  and  the  tin  plates  are  invaluable,  as 
hot  pans  from  the  stove  can  be  placed  on  them  and 
carried  to  the  tables  with  no  danger  of  soil  from  the 
smoky  bottoms,  and  an  immense  amount  of  labor 
saved  by  serving  direct  from  the  pan. 

For  table-dishes  we  use  the  German  white  enamel 
ware  edged  with  blue,  which  may  now  be  found  at 
any  house  furnishing  store.  It  is  charming  in  its 
cleanly,  dainty  appearance,  yet  as  unbreakable  as 
the  conventional  camp  tin  plate,  and  it  can  be  put 
upon  the  stove  or  in  the  hottest  oven  to  reheat  with- 

58 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

out  harm — no  small  consideration  on  a  cold  day 
when  the  wind  chills  your  soup  quickly.  Take  sev- 
eral extra  plates,  cups  and  saucers,  besides  the  num- 
ber allotted  each  person. 

We  always  take  our  own  silver  spoons  and  forks, 
and  a  few  table  napkins ;  they  are  restful  to  use,  and 
thoroughly  pay  for  the  little  extra  trouble.  Besides 
they  furnish  such  excellent  texts  for  the  Bohemian 
camp  visitor  to  lecture  from,  that  we  should  miss  a 
great  deal  of  instruction  and  entertainment  were 
these  left  behind. 

"Silver  in  camping ! ' '  says  the  visitor.  *  'Why,  my 
dear  woman,  you  don't  know  how  to  camp  at  all! 
Let  me  give  you  some  of  the  main  points,  so  that  you 
will  not  burden  yourself  with  all  these  foolish  traps 
another  time.  Of  course  being  from  the  East  you 
don't  know,  but  here  you  want  to  be  really  com- 
fortable in  camp;  just  an  old  tin  pan  or  kettle  or 
iron  spoon  or  any  old  thing  to  cook  with  and  eat 
with,  and  throw  it  away  afterward — no  trouble  at 
all!9' 

Vainly  do  we  explain  that  this  entire  outfit  is  the 
result  of  months  of  camp  experience ;  that  weeks  on 
the  pitiless  desert  were  rendered  to  a  frail  physique 
possible  and  even  delightful  by  these  very  comforts ; 
that  we  see  no  reason  for  leaving  silver  with  our 
servants  and  eating  with  tin  ourselves  for  three 
painful  months.  Our  visitor  continues  firmly  to  en^ 
lighten  us,  and,  failing  to  convince,  moves  on  to  the 
next  camp,  whence  come  fragments  of  sentences 

59 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

descriptive  of  a  curious  form  of  tenderfoot  snob. 

Unless  you  are  willing  to  wash  out  your  table  nap- 
kins occasionally  for  the  sake  of  the  comfort  they 
afford — and  in  most  summer  camps  there  will  be 
enough  unescapable  washing  without  this — an  ample 
supply  of  Japanese  paper  ones  may  be  laid  in. 
Table  cloths  are  not  to  be  recommended  in  any  case ; 
white  ones  soil  too  quickly,  and  the  conventional  red 
cloth  becomes  painfully  unattractive  after  some  days 
of  use.  A  pretty  green  and  white  oilcloth,  which 
can  be  kept  spotlessly  clean,  has  been  a  great  com- 
fort in  our  camp  life.  Take  rather  more  than  you 
will  use  on  the  table,  as  extra  covers  and  mats  are 
sometimes  useful. 

After  the  kitchen  comforts,  those  most  needed  are 
camp  furniture.  This  means  rude  tables,  rough 
chairs,  shelves  nailed  to  trees,  boxes  on  legs  for  hold- 
ing provisions  which  must  be  kept  from  the  damp- 
ness of  the  ground,  and  any  articles  that  the  men 
of  the  camp  will  knock  together.  These  can  be  made 
of  packing  boxes,  tree  branches  or  old  boards ;  and 
should  be  put  together  as  quickly  as  possible  after 
you  go  into  camp,  bringing  thereby  unlimited  com- 
fort without  delay  into  the  commissary  department. 

For  the  making  of  such  things,  it  will  be  needful 
to  take  with  you  a  small  saw,  a  hatchet,  spade,  small 
axe,  nails,  wire  and  pincers.  Take  also  a  number 
of  old  gunny-sacks  or  pieces  of  burlap  for  spreading 
upon  the  ground,  or  using  as  a  floor  covering  if  you 
have  no  wooden  floor  for  the  tent.  If  the  ground  is 

60 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

dusty  or  at  all  damp  you  will  be  very  glad  to  have 
these. 

In  a  warm  country,  boxes  sunk  in  the  ground  for 
keeping  meat,  butter,  eggs  and  milk  (if  you  can 
get  these  luxuries),  are  most  valuable. 

Concerning  comfortable  clothing  for  camping, 
while  we  wear  outfits  perfectly  satisfactory  to  our- 
selves, it  has  never  seemed  necessary  to  secure  this 
comfort  by  looking  like  i '  freaks. ' '  Hobnailed  boots, 
skirts  to  one's  knees,  bloomers  and  a  general  soiled 
air  of  wildness  may  mean  comfort  to  some  women 
campers,  but  they  certainly  do  not  to  all.  In  the 
wildest  and  most  remote  haunts  of  Nature,  a  woman, 
unless  a  professional  mountain  climber,  rarely  has 
need  for  any  heavier  shoes  than  the  average  stout 
walking  boot,  nor  for  a  skirt  above  the  ankles ;  but 
this  should  be  full  and  light,  well  fastened  to  the 
shoulders,  and  every  garment  should  be  loose  and 
comfortably  adjusted.  Soft  colors  that  will  not 
frighten  the  birds  and  small  animals  about  camp, 
will  add  to  their  comfort  and  your  own  pleasure; 
and  plainly  made  linen-colored  waists  with  pretty 
collars,  will  be  found  welcome.  A  man  can  well 
make  camp-life  the  occasion  to  use  up  his  old 
clothes;  and  will  find  leather  or  canvas  leggins,  a 
soft  hat,  an  outing  shirt  and  a  handkerchief  about 
the  neck  instead  of  a  collar,  the  only  changes 
necessary  from  his  ordinary  dress. 

It  may  be  said,  in  passing,  that  the  wearing  of 
clothes  reasonably  clean  and  neat  and  devoid  of 

61 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

freakishness,  combined  with  a  generous  supply  of 
baggage,  will  cause  you  invariably  to  be  set  down  as 
a  tenderfoot.  This,  however,  you  will  find  to  have 
distinct  advantages ;  people  will  be  constantly  giving 
you  points  and  entertaining  you  with  facts  and 
fancies  which  otherwise  you  would  not  hear  of;  for 
the  average  Calif  ornian  is  somewhat  reticent  about 
volunteering  information  to  one  who,  he  thinks,  may 
know  as  much  as  he  himself  knows.  Then  there  is 
this  further  advantage  in  keeping  the  outward  ap- 
pearance of  a  lady  or  a  gentleman — it  frequently 
secures  you  the  entree  to  desirable  places  irrevoca- 
bly closed  to  those  whose  gentle  breeding  is  not 
apparent. 

As  a  final  word  in  the  interests  of  comfort  in 
camp,  establish  the  habit  of  doing  as  little  complain- 
ing as  possible  even  to  your  dearest  and  most  com- 
prehending friend.  For  some  inscrutable  reason,  a 
sensitive  nature  is  apt  to  feel  itself  to  blame  for 
most  of  the  hardships  and  untoward  developments 
of  a  trip ;  and  to  have  these  dwelt  upon  by  the  person 
whom  one  most  desires  to  relieve  of  discomfort, 
makes  the  situation  doubly  hard.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary to  ignore  with  drawing-room  politeness  ills  that 
are  perfectly  patent ;  but  neither  is  it  needful  to  take 
too  seriously  what  cannot  be  helped.  Nowhere  is 
the  common,  everyday  virtue  of  cheerfulness  more 
appreciated  than  in  camp  life.  Being  out  for  a  good 
time,  have  it ! 


62 


THE  MOUNTAINS 
II.     CAMPING  IN  THE  YOSEMITB 

The  most  independent  and  least  expensive  way  to 
see  the  Yosemite  Valley  is  to  camp  there,  and  every 
year  thousands  spend  their  vacations  thus  in  this 
enchanting  wonderland,  seeing  its  magnificences  as 
the  dweller  within  hotel  walls  can  never  hope  to  see 
them.  Along  the  sunny  meadow  lands  skirting  the 
Merced  Eiver  as  well  as  in  the  shady  pine  woods, 
both  below  and  above  the  little  village  of  Yosemite, 
are  hundreds  of  camp  sites  absolutely  free  to  visitors 
who  may  wish  to  pitch  their  tents  upon  them,  sub- 
ject only  to  certain  simple  regulations  imposed  by 
the  United  States  Government.  Water  is  dipped 
out  of  the  near-by  river,  clear  and  cool  from  the 
snow-ranges  of  the  High  Sierra,  firewood  may  be 
gathered  in  the  woods  of  the  valley,  and  provisions 
may  be  had  from  the  village  store,  if  the  camper 
has  not  brought  his  own.  Entire  camping  outfits 
from  tent  to  frying-pan  (though  exclusive  of  linen) 
may  be  hired  in  the  valley  at  a  reasonable  charge — 
fifteen  dollars  per  month  would  amply  cover  the  rent 
of  such  an  outfit  for  two  persons ;  but  most  campers 
bring  their  own,  for  your  Californian  dearly  loves 
a  vacation  by  camp-wagon,  and  if  he  lives  anywhere 
within  a  radius  of  a  couple  of  hundred  miles  of  "the 
Valley,"  he  is  apt  to  make  this  trip  several  times 
in  his  life. 

There  is  a  butcher  in  the  village,  and  a  general 
store ;  good  milk,  butter,  bread  and  eggs  may  be  pro- 

63 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

cured,  and  from  the  Indians  one  may  occasionally 
buy  chickens,  fresh  fish  or  wild  strawberries.  Prices 
in  the  Yosemite  are  about  one-fourth  higher  than  in 
the  large  towns,  owing  to  the  expense  of  transporta- 
tion. Deliveries  of  goods  are  made  to  all  campers 
by  the  store  wagon.  Our  expenses  for  the  best  ob- 
tainable food  supplies  during  the  two  weeks  of  our 
stay  were  $14  for  two — a  weekly  average  of  $3.50 
each  person,  or  less  than  one  day's  expenses  would 
have  been  at  the  hotel. 

The  time  of  our  visit  to  the  Valley  was  the  middle 
of  June,  at  which  season  we  found  the  nights  cool, 
but  the  days  were  warm  enough  for  thin  summer 
clothes.  On  the  horse-trails  women  are  expected  to 
ride  astride,  and  if  one  has  not  a  riding  habit,  a 
skirt  sufficiently  full  to  admit  of  this  requirement 
should  be  taken.  There  is  practically  no  rain  from 
June  to  October ;  but  in  case  of  a  possible  shower 
and  chiefly  as  a  protection  against  dust,  women  will 
find  a  light  rain-coat  desirable.  No  firearms  are 
permitted  in  the  Valley,  and  no  trapping  or  hunting 
is  allowed;  but  trout  fishing  in  season  is  permitted, 
and  at  times  is  fairly  good. 

All  the  Yosemite  trails  are  free  to  pedestrians, 
and  are  kept  in  good  order  for  climbing.  Our  own 
experience  leads  us  to  conclude,  however,  that  owing 
to  the  fatigue  consequent  upon  making  the  ascent 
of  the  precipitous  walls  of  the  Valley,  it  is  a  wise 
economy  for  all  but  the  very  vigorous  to  pay  for 
animals  to  carry  them.  The  trips  to  Glacier  Point, 

64 


A  camp  in  the  Yosemite,  with  a  view  of  the  famous  Falls 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

to  the  head  of  Yo Semite  Falls,  and  to  Vernal  and 
Nevada  Falls,  are  the  three  regulation  ascents  of 
the  Valley  walls  which  most  visitors  make,  and  they 
should  all  be  taken  by  the  camper.  Each  requires 
a  day  for  its  accomplishment,  and  no  guide  is  needed 
for  any  one  of  them,  as  the  trails  are  perfectly  plain 
and  safe.  Mirror  Lake  at  the  east  end  of  the  Valley 
and  the  lovely  Bridal  Veil  Falls  near  the  western 
end,  are  also  unforgettable  sights  not  to  be  missed. 
Each  may  be  visited  in  half  a  day.  As  there  is  no 
climbing,  the  walks  to  these  two  points  through  the 
woodlands  and  flowery  meads  of  the  Valley  floor, 
will  prove  delightful  jaunts. 

These  five  excursions  need  not  here  be  dwelt  upon 
in  detail,  as  they  are  in  the  province  of  the  conven- 
tional sightseer — to  whose  class  this  book  does  not 
profess  to  cater.  But  there  are  some  longer  trips 
to  be  taken,  with  which  one's  Yosemite  camp  life 
may  well  be  varied.  For  these  more  extended  out- 
ings it  will  be  needful  to  engage  a  guide,  who  will 
be  furnished  by  the  stableman  from  whom  the  ani- 
mals for  the  trail  are  procured.  And  in  passing,  let 
it  be  said  that  your  happiness  on  these  rougher 
trips  depends  largely  upon  your  limiting  the  party 
to  yourselves  and  your  guide.  The  chances  are 
ninety-nine  in  a  hundred  that  any  stranger  included 
from  charitable  or  mayhap  economical  motives,  will 
develop  qualities  that  will  cause  you  to  wish  him  in 
Jericho  before  you  have  been  out  half  a  day. 

Among  these  trips  there  is  for  instance,  that  to 

65 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

Cloud's  Rest,  eleven  miles  distant,  which  is  possible 
of  accomplishment  by  the  energetic  within  a  day,  if 
a  very  early  start  be  taken ;  though  a  better  plan  for 
the  lover  of  easy  stages  is  to  arrange  to  camp  over 
night  and  return  the  next  day.  Cloud's  Rest  peak 
is  close  to  ten  thousand  feet  above  sea  level  (six 
thousand  above  the  Valley  floor)  and  affords  a  su- 
perb bird's-eye  view  of  the  Valley,  as  well  as  a 
glorious  outlook  along  the  High  Sierra.  On  the  re- 
turn, a  short  side  trip  of  a  few  hours  may  easily  be 
made  by  means  of  a  trail  diverging  near  the  head 
of  the  Nevada  Fall,  into  the  sequestered  vale  known 
as  the  Little  Yosemite. 

Twenty-five  miles  by  trail  northeastward  from 
the  Yosemite  are  the  beautiful  Tuolumne  Meadows 
at  the  head  of  the  Grand  Canon  of  the  Tuolumne 
River  and  in  full  view  of  the  High  Sierra  which  rises 
to  the  height  of  a  mile  above  them.  For  a  compre- 
hensive variety  of  Sierra  mountaineering  experi- 
ence in  comparatively  small  compass,  this  trip  is  one 
of  the  finest  out  of  the  Yosemite.  The  trail  takes  in 
the  lovely  glacial  Lake  Tenaya;  while  a  few  miles 
beyond  the  Meadows,  Mount  Dana,  one  of  the 
loftiest  peaks  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  offers  a  com- 
paratively easy  back  to  clamber  upon  and  look  down 
on  the  wonderful  mountain  scenery  of  this  part  of 
California.  A  week  is  none  too  much  to  allow  to 
this  trip,  which — to  quote  the  words  of  John  Muir, 
whose  classic  book  "The  Mountains  of  Calif ornia" 
should  be  part  of  your  baggage,  whatever  else  you 

66 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

leave  out — will  lead  you  "through  regions  that  lie 
far  above  the  ordinary  haunts  of  the  devil  and  of 
the  pestilence  that  walks  in  darkness. "  If,  how- 
ever, you  are  too  limited  in  time  to  allow  yourself 
to  steep  leisurely  in  the  subalpine  glories,  it  is  quite 
possible  to  make  the  round  from  the  Valley  and  back 
without  undue  fatigue,  in  four  days. 

We  had  been  camping  in  the  Yosemite  for  over  a 
week  before  we  became  acquainted  with  its  Indian 
life.  This  is  so  unobtrusive  a  feature  of  the  Valley 
that  the  conventional  tourist  "  doing "  the  Valley  in 
three  or  four  days  will  hardly  know  of  its  existence 
at  all;  for  one  may  almost  count  upon  one's  fingers 
these  present-day  descendants  of  the  once  numerous 
and  proud  race  that  formerly  dwelt  here. 

The  quest  of  wild  strawberries  one  June  day  led 
us  well  over  toward  the  base  of  the  northern  wall  of 
the  Valley,  and  there  close  by  some  black  oaks  we 
caught  our  first  sight  of  a  Yosemite  chuck-ah.  This 
is  an  outdoor  receptacle  for  storing  acorns — in 
shape  like  a  huge  hamper,  and  made  of  branches 
and  twigs  closely  interwoven.  It  is  mounted  on 
four  posts  that  lift  it  several  feet  above  the  ground, 
and  hold  it  thus  out  of  the  reach  of  ground-dwelling 
rodents,  while  a  covering  of  thatch  or  bits  of  board 
and  old  cloths  protects  the  contents  from  the 
weather.  Three  of  these  odd  looking  objects  stood 
in  a  row,  and  penetrating  the  thicket  beyond  them, 
we  came  upon  the  present  homestead  of  old  Fran- 
cisco and  his  wife  and  Wilson's  Lucy — an  unpic- 

67 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

turesque  frame  shack  near  a  great  oak  tree  and 
within  sound  of  the  rushing  waters  of  Indian  Creek 
as  they  bound  down  out  of  Indian  Canon  to  join  the 
Merced  River.  Wilson's  Lucy  made  baskets,  it  ap- 
peared, for  we  got  a  glimpse  of  a  partially  finished 
one  over  which  she  had  hastily  thrown  her  apron 
when  we  unexpectedly  broke  in  upon  her  seclusion. 
Old  Francisco  was  frankly  basking  in  the  sun;  his 
working  days  were  over,  and  rheumatism  had  him 
by  the  legs.  He  was  a  little,  wizened  old  man,  with 
a  cheerful  outlook  upon  life  for  all,  as  we  afterwards 
found,  quite  content  to  let  others  run  the  race  though 
he  could  not. 

He  responded  smilingly  to  our  salutation,  and  en- 
tered briskly  into  conversation,  marshalling  his  little 
stock  of  English  into  all  sorts  of  queer  combinations. 
From  him  we  learned  the  name  and  uses  of  the 
chuck-dh,  until  then  an  enigma  to  us,  and  he  ex- 
patiated upon  the  merits  of  acorn  meal,  the  way  of 
preparing  which  from  the  bitter  acorn  he  endeav- 
ored to  explain,  but  the  method  of  manufacture  as 
set  forth  in  his  pigeon  English  was  more  than  we 
could  follow.  He  did,  however,  make  plain  the  be- 
ginning of  the  process  by  convoying  us  a  short  dis- 
tance through  the  chaparral  to  a  great,  sunny,  flat- 
topped  granite  rock,  pitted  with  a  score  or  more 
of  small  depressions  or  mortar  holes,  which  it  seems 
the  Indian  women  of  past  generations  had  worn, 
beating  acorns  there  into  meal  with  granite  pestles. 
In  this  way  the  fruit  of  the  oak  was  reduced  to  flour, 

68 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

but  bitter  and  unpalatable  as  the  original  nut.  The 
endeavor  to  tell  how  by  some  system  of  leaching, 
this  bitterness  was  subsequently  extracted,  was  the 
rock  upon  which  old  Francisco's  limited  stock  of 
English  met  disaster.  After  several  ineffectual  at- 
tempts to  clarify  the  subject,  he  finally  laughed 
pleasantly,  and  remarked: 

"You  no  savvy?" 

Then  changing  the  subject,  he  inquired  affably: 

"You  got  some  match?" 

I  proffered  him  a  box  of  them — always  an  espe- 
cially acceptable  gift  to  the  old-time  Indian,  who  re- 
members the  days  when  fires  were  arduously  kindled 
by  rubbing  sticks  of  wood — and  old  Francisco  put 
it  in  his  pocket  with  a  look  of  satisfaction.  Then 
sitting  down  in  the  sunshine,  he  looked  up  and 
watched  the  cumulus  clouds  float  up  from  behind  the 
Valley  wall  out  into  the  blue  heavens.  Thus  resting 
from  his  labors,  we  left  him. 

The  able-bodied  men  and  younger  women  of  the 
Yosemites,  find  employment  at  day's  labor  at  the 
hotel,  the  livery  stable,  and  with  resident  white 
families ;  while  the  older  women  attend  to  the  house- 
hold duties  of  their  rancherias,  and  at  odd  times 
make  baskets  for  sale  to  the  tourists.  Like  all  the 
California  Indians,  this  remnant  of  the  Yosemites 
entirely  lack  the  picturesqueness  which  is  so  notice- 
able a  feature  of  the  red  men  in  their  native  estate 
to  the  east  of  the  Sierra  Nevada.  Nevertheless  the 
reason  for  their  being  in  the  Valley  at  all  at  this 

69 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

day,  lends  a  certain  romantic  interest  to  their  pres- 
ence. Their  story  is  briefly  this : 

Shortly  after  the  discovery  of  gold  in  California, 
the  Sierra  foothills  were  overran  with  a  more  or 
less  lawless  horde  of  white  gold-hunters,  who  treated 
the  resident  Indian  in  the  usual  cavalier  manner  of 
the  frontier.  ^Elis  hereditary  rights  ruthlessly  tres- 
passed upon,  and  himself  cheated  right  and  left  in 
trade,  the  red  man  finally  retaliated,  stole  horses 
and  set  fire  to  miners'  cabins.  Bloodshed  followed 
and  the  Government  was  appealed  to,  to  rid  the 
earth  of  "the  marauding  savages."  Then  ensued 
an  Indian  war  resulting,  of  course,  in  the  defeat  of 
the  Indians,  and  the  transference  of  all  the  sur- 
vivors of  the  foot-hill  tribes  from  their  native 
homes  to  a  Government  Reservation  near  Fresno 
in  the  San  Joaquin  Valley. 

The  Yosemites,  dwelling  in  the  mountains,  were 
not  so  easily  handled,  and  it  was  in  pursuing  them 
to  their  Sierra  fastnesses  that  in  1851  a  company  of 
white  soldiers  discovered  the  marvelous  valley  which 
the  world  still  calls  Yosemite.  These  Indians,  too, 
however,  were  eventually  captured  and  carried  to 
Fresno ;  but  life  in  a  lowland  reservation  proved  so 
much  of  a  hardship  to  the  mountain-bred  tribes,  that 
at  the  expiration  of  a  few  years  of  misery,  disease, 
and  induction  into  frontier  white  vices,  the  remnant 
of  them  begged  to  be  allowed  to  go  back  and  live  in 
their  old  home,  promising  to  be  self-supporting  and 
in  no  way  to  molest  the  white  population.  Their  pe- 

70 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

tition  was  mercifully  granted,  and  during  the  half 
j century  that  has  elapsed  since  their  return  to  the 
land  which  was  the  cradle  of  their  race,  they  have 
faithfully  kept  their  promise.  They  have  accumu- 
lated no  property,  they  have  dwindled  in  numbers, 
but  they  have  been  free — they  have  kept  the  faith 
of  their  fathers.  Under  the  slouchy  clothing  of 
metropolitan  sweat-shops,  in  which  their  bodies  are 
clothed,  something  of  the  old  proud  spirit  still  burns. 

"Why  don't  you  work  for  me?"  a  man  who  had 
little  respect  for  Indians,  but  wanted  laborers,  asked 
Yosemite  Tom  one  day.  "You  work  for  George 
Smith.  Isn't  my  money  as  good  as  his?" 

"Yes,  me  work  for  George, "  the  old  red  man  re- 
plied; "when  George  have  pie,  me  have  pie;  when 
George  have  cake,  me  have  cake.  You  say,  'Any- 
thing good  enough  for  damned  Indian.'  " 

III.     SUMMER  IN  THE  CANONS 

As  I  sit  by  my  open  window  this  morning  of  mid- 
July,  the  soft  pitty-pat  of  a  burro's  unshod  hoofs 
greets  my  ears,  and  the  murmur  of  pleasant  voices. 
Looking  up  I  see  passing  along  the  street  in  front 
of  our  house,  our  neighbors,  the  Professor  and  his 
wife,  starting  on  their  three  weeks'  summer  vaca- 
tion in  the  mountains,  and  chatting  with  all  the 
buoyancy  of  spirits  that  goes  with  the  early  hours 
of  a  day's  outing. 

They  have  three  burros.  One  is  bidden  by  Madam 

71 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

Professor;  the  other  two  are  packed  with  the  camp 
equipment  and  provisions.  The  Professor  in  high- 
laced  shoes  and  a  khaki  suit  is  walking  and  with 
the  skillful  application  of  his  chamise  stick  keeps  the 
burros  in  the  middle  of  the  street.  Their  destina- 
tion is  one  of  the  canons  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  whose 
cool,  green,  rugged  sides  lift  themselves  five  or  six 
thousand  feet  against  the  blue  heaven  to  the  north 
of  our  little  city.  Five  miles  of  gradual  ascent  will 
bring  the  small  cavalcade  to  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tains and  the  mouth  of  the  canon — it  may  be  Mil- 
lard's  or  the  Canon  of  the  Arroyo  Seco  or  another. 
There  they  will  halt  at  noon  for  a  siesta,  and  a  cup 
of  tea  made  with  water  obtained  at  one  of  the  ranch 
houses  that  dot  the  upper  edge  of  the  mesa  under 
the  foot-hills.  From  that  vantage  ground  there  will 
be  a  superb  view  of  the  great  valley  of  the  San  Gab- 
riel with  its  busy  towns  and  great  ranch-lands,  and 
far  off  across  a  low  bank  of  fog  to  the  southward  the 
blue  Pacific  with  the  twin  peaks  of  Santa  Catalina 
Island  rising  above  the  haze.  Beyond  them,  per- 
haps San  Clemente's  hulking  back  will  be  visible. 
And  there  will  be  a  pleasant  breeze  blowing  in  from 
the  sea,  still  cool  and  refreshing  after  its  thirty-odd 
miles  of  travel  across  the  land. 

Then,  after  an  hour  or  two  of  this  delicious  far 
niente,  the  donkeys  will  be  wakened  to  fresh  en- 
deavor; the  cinches  will  be  tightened;  the  smolder- 
ing remains  of  the  bit  of  camp-fire  will  be  quenched 
with  earth — for  in  this  dry  summer  weather  a  neg- 

72 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

lected  ember  might  set  fire  to  a  whole  mountain — 
and  the  climb  into  the  canon  will  begin.  The  burros 
spread  their  ears  to  a  picturesque  horizontal,  drop 
their  noses  to  the  ground,  and  arrange  themselves 
en  queue  upon  the  white  dusty  trail,  Madam  on 
burro  number  one  and  the  Professor  bringing  up 
the  rear.  The  air  is  filled  with  a  dozen  pungent 
aromas,  as  the  packs  brush  against  the  shrubbery 
that  crowds  upon  the  trail — fascinating,  unforgetta- 
ble odors  of  artemisia  and  California  bay,  white  sage 
and  black  sage,  monardella  and  what-not.  Ground 
squirrels  frisk  about  at  a  safe  distance,  and  gray 
lizards  look  inquiringly  out  from  the  top  of  sunny 
rocks  as  the  procession  passes.  Noble  California 
sycamores,  great-leaved  maples  and  alders  cast  a 
grateful  shade  in  the  canon  ?s  lower  reaches,  but  the 
tinkle  of  water  in  the  rocky  stream-bed  of  the  arroyo 
is  missing.  That  will  come  higher  up.  Water  is 
too  precious  in  Southern  California  to  be  suffered 
to  run  at  large  in  summer,  and  the  iron  pipe-line 
that  follows  this  canon  trail  tells  the  story  of  the 
water  caught  at  its  source  in  the  Sierra's  upper 
springs  and  conveyed  to  the  valley  to  be  meted  out 
there  to  consumers  at  so  much  per  inch. 

Nightfall  will  find  the  little  party  beneath  the 
Douglas  spruces  and  live-oaks  of  the  mountain's 
higher  slopes.  The  tent,  if  tent  there  be,  will  have 
been  pitched,  supper  eaten,  the  blankets  spread  on 
a  fragrant  bed  of  springy  boughs,  the  burros  staked 
out,  and  the  Professor  and  his  wife — lovers  still 

73 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

after  two  and  twenty  years  of  companionship  in  a 
rough  world — sit  with  their  hands  in  each  other's, 
silently  watching  the  night  mists  gathering  in  the 
purple  coves  and  canons  below  them.  The  rosy 
tints  of  the  sunset  once  almost  gone  from  the  sky, 
flash  up  again  for  a  moment,  then  die  finally  away. 
Hesper  glows  like  another  sun,  above  one  black 
western  peak  and  slowly  sinks  behind  it.  An  owl 
goes  chittering  by  in  the  dusk,  and  a  cool  breeze 
awakening  somewhere  and  taking  wing  through  the 
night,  makes  the  thought  of  the  blankets  a  very 
pleasant  thought.  The  Professor  and  his  wife  are 
glad  they  have  come. 

Perhaps  this  is  their  permanent  camping  ground 
for  the  three  weeks,  or  it  may  be  that  they  will 
better  themselves  by  proceeding  further  on  the  mor- 
row. When,  however,  they  are  settled,  they  will 
want  to  be  under  immemorial  trees  and  near  enough 
a  trout  stream  for  the  Professor  to  keep  his  hand  in 
as  an  active  member  of  the  Ancient  and  Honorable 
Fraternity  of  Temperate  Anglers;  and  they  will 
want  to  have  an  outlook  across  tree  tops  to  the  south 
and  west,  for  thence  come  the  cooling  influences  of 
the  blessed  trade-winds  of  the  Pacific,  which  con- 
tribute so  essentially  to  the  summer  comfort  of 
Southern  California. 

All  summer  long  from  June  until  September,  the 
canons  of  the  California  mountains  are  resorted  to 
by  camping-parties  small  and  large,  and  to  meet  the 
demand  for  this  healthful  recreation  many  public 

74 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

camps,  plain  but  comfortable,  are  established,  where 
for  ten  or  twelve  dollars  per  week  those  who  want 
such  an  outing  but,  unlike  the  Professor  and  his 
wife,  do  not  care  for  the  labors  incident  to  main- 
taining a  private  camp,  may  go,  indulge  their  souls 
and  be  happy.  Within  seventy-five  or  a  hundred 
miles  of  San  Francisco,  for  instance,  both  north  and 
south,  there  are  among  the  redwood  forests  scores 
of  such  public  camps,  where  the  visitor  sleeps  in  a 
tent  and  eats  his  meals  at  a  public  table  under  the 
trees.  This  appears  to  be  Arcady  enough  for  a  cer- 
tain portion  of  our  population,  though  the  lover  of 
unadulterated  nature  is  apt  to  find  such  an  out- 
ing with  its  permanent  floors  and  deal  tables,  to- 
gether with  more  or  less  boisterous  companionship 
of  people,  too  conventional  for  him.  In  the  gen- 
erous length  and  breadth  of  the  California  moun- 
tains, however,  there  is  room  enough  for  all. 

Many  camping  resorts  are  advertised  in  the 
folders  issued  by  the  railroads,  but  just  as  there  are 
as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  were  caught,  so  there 
are  countless  choice  nooks  in  this  empire  of  a  State, 
never  dreamt  of  in  the  philosophy  of  the  railroad 
man.  Any  old-time  Californian,  as  he  smokes  his 
pipe  under  the  vines  of  his  porch  of  a  summer  night, 
will  delight  to  give  you  points  about  his  especial 
happy  hunting  grounds,  and  the  best  way  to  get 
there. 

To  mention  a  few  in  many  of  the  more  publicly 
known,  there  is  the  Shasta  country  in  the  extreme 

75 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

northern  part  of  the  State,  to  which  a  number  of 
stations  on  the  Southern  Pacific  Railroad  serve  as 
gateways.  This  region  offers  almost  everything  in 
the  way  of  camping  out,  from  marquees  under  the 
wing  of  a  fashionable  hotel  to  the  wildest  kind  of 
wilderness,  attainable  only  by  the  use  of  guides  and 
pack  animals.  Ukiah  in  the  Russian  River  region 
somewhat  further  south  is  a  starting  point  for  many 
camps,  and  the  visitor  having  an  interest  in  the 
basketry  of  the  California  Indians  or  in  these  In- 
dians themselves,  will  find  himself  there  within  com- 
paratively easy  access  of  a  great  deal  of  Indian  life. 
And  there  are  the  redwoods  of  the  Santa  Cruz  Moun- 
tains. 

In  the  southern  half  of  the  State,  every  city  and 
town  from  San  Diego  to  Monterey  has  its  summer 
camps  in  the  canons  at  its  back,  so  that  it  seems  in- 
vidious to  mention  one  and  not  another.  One,  how- 
ever, cannot  go  amiss  in  Strawberry  Valley  on  the 
western  slopes  of  San  Jacinto  Mountain,  or  in  Bear 
Valley  in  the  San  Bernardino  Mountains,  or  in  the 
great  San  Gabriel  Canon  of  the  Sierra  Madre  ac- 
cessible from  Azusa.  Then  if  one  have  a  month  or 
two  to  give  to  it — less  time  seems  an  insult  to  such 
grandeur — there  is  the  glorious  wild  region  of  that 
comparatively  little  visited  rival  of  Yosemite,  the 
King's  River  Canon  in  the  lower  Sierra  Nevada,  to 
which  one  attains  by  wagon  and  horseback  and  foot 
from  Visalia  in  the  San  Joaquin  Valley.  Here  one 
may  camp  beneath  giant  sequoias  which  were  old 

76 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

while  the  Koman  Empire  was  still  undreamt  of; 
may  gather  wild  flowers  by  glacial  lakes,  or  climb 
out  above  the  timber  line  upon  some  of  the  noblest 
peaks  of  the  High  Sierra,  and  experience  the  doubt- 
ful enjoyment  of  weathering  out  a  thunder  storm  in 
the  clouds  in  the  very  factory  of  the  lightning. 

The  advertisements  of  many  of  the  "camper's 
paradise "  regions  contain  the  announcement  "Out- 
fits must  be  taken."  In  such  cases,  if  you  are  not 
over-strong  and  not  only  desire  but  need  to  be  com- 
fortable— and  this,  it  is  to  be  remembered,  is  the 
class  to  which  these  hints  are  especially  addressed— 
do  not  hearken  to  the  voice  of  the  athletic  tempter 
who  is  continually  urging  folk  to  "travel  light. " 
Let  him  if  he  like,  go  as  John  Muir  does,  with  a  sack 
of  bread,  a  packet  of  tea  and  a  tin  cup ;  but  as  for 
you,  hire  an  extra  burro  if  need  be,  but  by  all  means 
carry  everything  your  reasonable  comfort  requires, 
except  firewood  and  water.  You  may  find  yourself 
with  some  unnecessary  things  when  you  get  there, 
but  that  is  infinitely  'better  than  being  short-sup- 
plied. Many  travel  by  wagon  to  the  road's  end, 
and  there  leaving  the  vehicle,  pack  their  camp  outfit 
and  provisions  upon  the  horses'  backs  and  proceed 
by  trail  to  the  sequestered  spots  that  suit  them, 
transporting  thus  even  the  family  sewing  machine 
and  baby  carriage,  and  leading  the  family  cow. 
Only  time  and  experience  can  show  each  camper 
the  exact  measure  of  his  or  her  own  needs. 

77 


JJNDEB  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFOBNIA 

IV.   AMONG  THE  ACOKN  EATEES  OF  SAN  DIEGO  COUNTY 

We  had  been  to  the  Mission  and  had  photographed 
the  ancient  date  palms  at  Old  Town ;  we  had  bought 
curios  at  Ramona's  renovated  marriage  place,  and 
had  motored  to  Lakeside  for  a  chicken  dinner.  We 
had  promenaded  in  and  out  of  the  Coronado's  mag- 
nificence as  nonchalantly  as  though  we  were  regis- 
tered there,  and  had  looked  on  at  archery  meets  and 
polo.  Point  Loma  and  the  purple  domes  of  the 
theosophical  Tingley,  we  had  done  with  the  prole- 
tariat in  a  "  rubber-neck "  automobile,  and  we  had 
tripped  it  to  Tia  Juana  for  a  taste  of  Old  Mexico. 
Yet  there  remained  the  feeling  of  an  unfulfilled 
want.  There  was  a  disappointing  sense  of  arti- 
ficiality about  it  all;  we  were  only  tourists  in  a 
tourist  town,  and  we  somehow  felt  that,  as  soon 
as  we  and  the  rest  of  our  ilk  departed,  all  San  Diego 
would  return  to  the  dust  and  adobe  whence  it  had 
arisen. 

"What  you  need,"  said  the  Old  Calif ornian,  "is 
to  take  a  pasear  into  the  back-country  and  have  a 
look  at  California  as  it  was  before  tourists  became 
a  staple  crop.  There's  some  of  it  left— the  real 
thing — thirty  and  forty  thousand  acre  cattle  ranches 
with  vaqueros  and  all  that— Indians,  too.  I  know  a 
rancher  fifty  miles  northeast  of  here,  who  takes 
boarders.  It's  three  quarters  of  a  mile  up  in  the 
air  in  the  mountains,  just  this  side  of  the  desert, 

78 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

and,  if  you  fix  it  so  as  to  be  there  November  second, 
you'll  see  the  Indian  candle  lighting  ceremonies  on 
All  Souls'  Night  at  Mesa  Grande." 

That  struck  our  fancy,  for  we  have  a  weakness 
for  Indians  when  they  are  out  of  school;  and  so, 
one  brilliant  autumn  morning,  we  shipped  aboard 
a  rickety  little  train  that  wheezed  and  snorted  by 
devious  ways  a  matter  of  twenty-five  miles  up  into 
the  foothills,  through  a  chaparral-clad,  bowlder- 
strewn  country,  barren  looking  in  the  main  but  with 
occasional  pleasant  valleys  in  the  dimples  of  the 
hills  where  lemon  raising  and  other  agricultural 
pursuits  are  possible,  and  by  and  by  we  came  to  the 
village  of  Foster.  Here  the  railroad  ended  and  an 
automobile  stage  carried  us  fifteen  miles  farther  to 
Ramona,  there  to  be  handed  over  to  a  two-horse 
stage  of  the  conventional  back-country  type  with 
"U.  S.  Mail"  lettered  on  the  side. 

Now  followed  another  fifteen  miles  through  an 
ever-rising  mountain  region  of  cattle-ranges  and 
bee-ranches,  with  here  and  there  orchards  of  apples, 
pears  and  cherries,  and  views  of  distant  peaks  to 
which  Spanish  names  lent  the  charm  of  mystery  and 
romance — Corral,  Volcan,  the  Cuyamacas,  Palomar 
and  San  Jacinto  's  pallid  bulk,  anchored  in  mist.  At 
ranch  gates,  Dick  the  driver  dropped  the  morning 
paper  in  the  mail  box  and  grinned  a  "Que  hay, 
hombre"  to  the  occasional  Mexican  who  loped  by  us 
on  horseback.  Once  an  athletic  lady  in  khaki  and 
sombrero,  driving  a  buckboard,  halted  us  to  ask  with 

79 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

winningness  of  manner  not  to  be  denied  by  any 
gentleman,  if  Dick  would  mind  waiting  while  she 
wrote  a  postal  to  her  husband,  as  she  might  not 
have  another  chance  soon  to  catch  the  mail!  Of 
course,  we  waited,  Dick  meanwhile  rolling  a  ciga- 
rette, and,  as  he  smoked,  watched  the  clouds  streak- 
ing the  sky  over  Volcan. 

"I  believe  we'll  have  rain  before  spring, "  he 
observed  with  a  wink,  as  he  thrust  the  finished  post- 
card into  his  mail  sack,  and  saying,  "So  long, 
missus,"  to  the  lady,  resumed  the  journey. 

At  a  certain  cross-road,  three  young  horsemen 
bright-faced  and  brown,  with  a  led  saddle-pony, 
awaited  our  coming.  They  had  expected  a  friend 
from  Los  Angeles  on  the  stage ;  but  got  only  a  pos- 
tal card,  which  they  read,  and  then  cantered  on 
ahead  of  us  until  they  struck  a  trail  that  led  off 
through  the  chamise  to  some  mountain  ranch.  They 
were  a  picturesque  trio  in  their  straight  brimmed 
Stetson  hats  and  leather  chaps,  the  ends  of  their 
blue  neck  handkerchiefs  fluttering  behind  them  in  the 
breeze — types  of  a  young  America  that  often  comes 
for  a  year  or  two  into  these  wholesome,  open  spaces 
to  get  into  their  systems  the  spirit  of  the  great 
Western  out-of-doors  and  a  taste  of  clean,  demo- 
cratic living,  as  one  gets  it  nowhere  except  upon  a 
ranch. 

"It  does  them  young  town  fellows  good  to  rough 
it  awhile,"  said  Dick,  "if  there's  anything  to  'em 
at  all.  I  worked  in  the  Arizona  cow  country  before 

80 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

I  come  up  here,  and  there  was  a  good  many  of 
them  used  to  blow  in  there  from  back  East 
to  learn  somethin'  honest  after  they  was  through 
college.  They  learned  all  right,  or  if  they  didn't, 
they  was  throwed  off  the  range.  You  wouldn't 
believe  what  poor  cusses  some  of  these  fel- 
lows is  that's  had  fortunes  spent  on  education. 
Why,  last  summer  there  was  a  widow  lady  and  her 
son  come  up  to  one  of  these  here  boarding-houses 
to  spend  a  month  near  Palomar,  where  I  was  work- 
ing with  the  stock.  She  was  a  haughty  sort,  just 
because  she  'd  all  sorts  of  money  in  bank ;  but,  gosh ! 
do  you  know  how  she  come  by  it?  I  know.  Why, 
her  husband  was  a  sheepman  and  once  when  he  was 
in  Los  Angeles  about  twenty  years  ago,  and  drunk, 
as  he  always  was  when  he  was  not  out  in  the  country 
about  his  business,  he  bought  a  bunch  of  good-for- 
nothin'  land  in  what  is  now  the  heart  of  Los  Angeles. 
And  when  he  sobered  up  and  seen  what  he'd  done, 
he  was  game  and  stayed  with  the  goods;  but  he 
turned  right  around  and  rented  it  out  on  a  twenty 
years'  lease  to  some  fellows  who  wanted  to  make 
bricks — so  he  couldn't  gamble  it  away,  you  see,  when 
he  got  drunk  again  sometime.  And  that's  how  he 
kep'  the  land  in  the  family,  and,  all  the  time,  Los 
kep'  growing  around  it.  So,  when  he  passed  in  his 
checks  and  his  estate  was  settled  up  three  or  four 
years  ago,  there  was  a  considerable  bunch  of  money 
and  somethin'  doin'  for  the  widow  and  boy,  you  bet 
you.  Well,  as  I  was  goin'  to  say  about  the  boy. 

81 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

He  was  twenty  year  old  and  he  was  just  plum  no 
good.  He'd  set  around  on  the  piazza  and  smoke 
cigareets  and  read  novels  when  the  Sunday  papers 
wore  out,  and  was  always  on  the  bum,  and  all  the 
time  he  was  more  ignorant  than  an  Injun.  Of 
course,  he'd  been  to  college;  but  that  don't  cut  no 
ice  in  real  life,  you  know.  Why,  will  you  believe 
me,"  and  Dick  took  the  quid  of  tobacco  from  his 
mouth  and  threw  it  bitterly  into  the  dust  of  the 
road,  "that  damn  fool  didn't  savvy  nothing—- 
couldn't even  cook  a  meal  or  saddle  a  horse,  and  the 
way  he  talked  to  women  was  a  disgrace.  He 
couldn't  open  his  mouth  to  a  girl  without  being 
fresh  to  her,  and  he  was  plum  impudent  to  his 
mother — hardly  ever  give  her  a  decent  answer.  He 
used  to  come  down  loafing  around  the  barn  some- 
times when  I  was  working  over  the  stock,  and  one 
day  I  give  the  boy  a  piece  of  my  mind  about  the 
way  he  talked  to  the  women  folks. 

"  'Why,'  says  I,  'if  you  was  over  in  Arizona  and 
talked  to  the  women  the  way  you  do  here,  the  boys 
would  poke  you  in  the  face  about  four  times  a  day. 
You'd  just  have  to  learn  to  behave.'  Well,  do  you 
know,  it  surprised  him?  He'd  just  had  no  bringing 
up  and  nobody  had  ever  spoke  right  out  to  him  be- 
fore. He  studied  over  it  quite  a  bit  and  it  done 
him  good.  He  stayed  on  here  a  couple  of  months 
after  his  mother  went  home,  and  him  and  me  went 
hunting  together,  and,  by  gosh,  at  the  end  of  the 
time,  he  could  skin  a  rabbit  and  flip  a  flapjack  pretty 

82 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

good,  and  once  he  shot  a  ky-ote.  Yes,  sir,"  con- 
tinued Dick,  with  the  unction  of  the  unco  guid,  "I 
figure  that  mebbe  in  the  Day  of  Judgment,  the  Lord 
will  give  me  credit  for  startin'  that  boy  on  the 
straight  and  narrow  path  of  duty." 

And  so,  with  pleasant  discourse,  we  came  in  the 
afterglow  to  Mesa  Grande,  hemmed  in  with  moun- 
tains whose  peaks,  facing  two  ways,  looked  out  upon 
two  great  elemental  mysteries,  a  sea  of  waters  to 
the  west,  and  to  the  east  an  ocean  of  desert  sands. 
Past  some  vineyards  and  through  a  cherry  orchard 
we  drove,  and  drew  up  before  the  hospitable  veranda 
of  a  white  adobe  ranch-house,  beside  which  roses 
and  two  colossal  live-oaks  grew. 

Our  host,  who  held  out  a  welcoming  hand  to  us, 
though  we  were  strangers  to  him,  was  the  reverse 
in  looks  of  the  typical  husky  ranchman  of  drama 
and  romance ;  for  he  was  of  delicate  frame,  though 
wiry,  with  a  poet's  sensitive  face  and  eyes.  A  quar- 
ter of  a  century  ago  he  had  come  in  impaired  health 
to  California  from  a  New  York  studio  and  selected 
this  spot,  as  he  told  us,  not  as  a  practical  man  would 
choose,  but  as  an  idealist,  for  its  beauty  and  its  in- 
spiration. Had  he  hit  upon  any  one  of  a  dozen 
other  places  along  the  coast,  the  rise  in  land  values 
by  this  time  would  have  made  him  a  hard-worked 
coupon  clipper.  To-day  he  has  to  show  for  his  in- 
vestment— with  the  cooperation  of  his  wife  who  has 
shared  the  adventure  with  him  from  the  first — no 
great  bank  account,  perhaps,  but  rugged  health,  three 

83 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

strapping  sons  well  educated  and  at  home  anywhere 
under  the  sky,  and  a  soul  still  sensitive  to  the  appeal 
of  life's  poetry  and  beauty.  Yet  his  life  has  not 
been  a  mere  dreamer's,  but,  in  the  best  sense,  prac- 
tical, as  his  well-kept  ranch  buildings  and  produc- 
tive orchards  betoken ;  while  the  captaincy  which  he 
holds  in  the  Indian  tribe  whose  reservation  adjoins 
his  ranch,  testifies  to  his  sympathetic,  intelligent 
friendship  with  the  vanishing  race  whom  most  white 
men  notice  only  to  plunder  or  to  pauperize. 

After  supper — a  delicious  memory  yet  with  its 
tender  cottage-cheese  and  pitchers  of  sweet  cider, 
its   heaped-up   dishes    of   fresh   figs    and   luscious 
bunches  of  Black  Hamburg  grapes  straight  from  the 
vineyard  on  the  hill — everybody  gathered  about  the 
open  fire-place  with  its  glowing  backlog  in  the  liv- 
ing room.    There  was  in  the  company  the  make-up 
of  another  series  of  " Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn" — so 
varied  and  racy  of  the  soil  was  it.    There  were  our 
host's   cultured   family;   his   kindly  ranch-partner 
who  had  once  been  a  desert  prospector;  a  stoutish 
apple-packer  from  San  Diego,  two  weeks  unshaven; 
three  young  chaps  of  the  Government  Survey,  who, 
on  the  morrow  were  to  begin  some  work  at  the  In- 
dian  Reservation;    a   wealthy   mine-owner's   vale- 
tudinarian wife  from  Mexico;  and  a  cheerful  lady 
from  Long  Island  who  had  come  on  a  visit  a  couple 
of  years  before  and  had  never  gone  back.    "I  know 
a  good  thing  when  I  see  it,"  she  had  written  East, 
"I've  had  snow  enough — give  me  roses  for  the  rest 

84 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

of  time!"  Above  the  piano  and  over  the  book- 
shelves, hung  a  few  fine  pictures  of  Indian  life  and 
many  specimens  of  local  Indian  basketry,  and 
across  the  whitewashed  face  of  the  adobe  fire-place 
was  draped  the  brown  tangle  of  a  reda,  or  net  of 
native  fiber,  in  which  Indian  women  used  to  carry 
their  burdens.  So  the  talk  fell  naturally  on  In- 
dians. 

"  There  are  several  reservations  of  Mission  In- 
dians within  a  radius  of  twenty-five  miles  from 
here,"  said  our  host,  " — no,  thanks,  I  don't  smoke 
—but  the  California  red  men  are  not  picturesque 
subjects  nowadays  and  probably  never  were,  com- 
pared with  their  history-making  brethren  of  the 
plains  and  eastern  forests;  and  to  look  at  them, 
fat  and  lethargic  in  their  white-man's  clothing  and 
clipped  hair,  you  wouldn't  think  there  was  much 
Indian  left  in  them.  A  century  and  a  half  of  pa- 
ternalism, under  the  Padres  first  and  then  Uncle 
Sam,  has  certainly  made  them  commonplace  enough ; 
so  that  the  tourist,  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow, 
can't  even  get  a  snap-shot  of  anything  about  them 
worth  a  film.  But  just  the  same,  under  the  blue- 
jeans  jumper  and  the  calico  dress,  the  old  Indian 
nature  exists,  and  if  you  had  wintered  and  sum- 
mered them  for  twenty-odd  years,  as  I  have,  you 
would  find  a  lot,  even  in  a  Mission  Indian,  to  respect 
and  to  love.  For  the  Indian  nature  is  there,  with 
all  its  childlike  appeal  and  fundamental  virtue,  if 
you  once  get  its  confidence.  But,  of  course,  the  old 

85 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

ways  are  rapidly  disappearing.  Pottery  making 
is  a  lost  art,  and  the  basket  weavers  are  almost  en- 
tirely old  women,  who  will  be  gone  in  a  few  years, 
carrying  out  of  the  world  the  secrets  of  a  wonder- 
ful and  beautiful  handicraft.  There  are  still  oc- 
casional mescal  roasts  on  the  desert;  and  the  acorn 
harvesting  still  goes  on,  though  in  a  prosy  way, 
with  barley  sacks  and  horses  instead  of  the  pic- 
turesque burden  baskets  and  the  reda  of  the  old 
days;  and  their  few  remaining  native  ceremonies 
are  three-fourths  Catholic." 

"But  they  still  play  peon,"  put  in  one  of  the 
Government  boys,  whose  views  of  Indians  were 
purely  materialistic. 

"Oh,  yes,  they'll  gamble  the  shirts  off  their  backs ; 
but  it's  among  themselves  and  the  luck  may  turn, 
and  they'll  get  them  back  again.  Now,  I  tell  you 
what  we'll  do,"  turning  to  Sylvia  and  me,  "you  are 
interested  in  the  primitive  things.  It  is  four  days 
till  the  candle-lighting;  and,  if  you  say  the  word, 
we'll  hitch  the  colts  to  the  buckboard  to-morrow, 
pack  along  grub  and  blankets,  and  put  off  mananita 
— in  the  little  morning,  as  the  Spanish  people  say— 
for  some  rancherias  I  know  of,  twenty  or  thirty 
miles  over  by  the  desert.  We'll  have  to  camp  out; 
for  there  isn't  a  white  soul  living  over  there,  but 
that's  part  of  the  sport  and  the  weather's  fine.  It's 
in  such  out-of-the-way  spots  that  you  see  the  last 
stand  of  the  California  Indian.  What  do  you  say?" 

We  said  yes,  with  emphasis,  and  early  the  next 

86 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

morning  we  were  off  for  San  Ygnacio.  There  had 
been  a  hard  northeast  wind  for  two  days  previously 
but  it  had  stilled,  leaving  the  atmosphere  dry  and 
clear  as  crystal  and  cold  as  Christmas.  The  colts 
tossed  their  heads  in  sheer  joy  of  life,  and  with  our 
light  rig,  up-hill  and  down-hill  were  all  one  to  them. 
Past  Mesa  Grande  store,  where  before  the  still  un- 
opened door  a  couple  of  chilly  Indians  sunned  them- 
selves; past  Ysidro  Nejo's  little  house — he  is  a 
character  in  "Kamona";  past  Government  School 
and  Indian  blacksmith  shop,  and  finally  the  ranch- 
eria  itself,  where  smoke  from  morning  fires  was 
rising  straight  into  the  still  air — we  showed  a  clean 
quartette  of  heels.  Then  the  road,  rounding  the 
toe  of  a  hill,  slipped  into  the  mountains  where  small 
sign  of  man  was  and  the  wilderness  closed  in  about 
us. 

Our  host  pointed  with  his  whip  to  a  distant  ridge 
covered  with  the  yellowing  foliage  of  deciduous 
oaks. 

"There,"  said  he,  "are  the  ancestral  granaries 
of  the  Mesa  Grande  Indians,  oak  forests  where  for 
unnumbered  generations  they  and  their  fathers' 
fathers  have  gathered  the  acorns  that  are  a  staple 
of  their  diet.  There  are  a  dozen  sorts  of  oaks  in 
the  country  and  the  Indians  have  discovered  that  of 
them  all,  the  acorns  that  are  least  bitter  and  so  most 
easily  made  palatable  are  those  of  a  particular 
species  of  black  oak.  And  though  the  Indians  have 
only  unwritten  laws,  the  rights  of  the  different 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

tribes  throughout  Southern  California  in  their  re- 
spective black  oak  lands  are  sharply  defined  and 
thoroughly  understood,  so  that  no  Mesa  Grande 
Indian,  for  instance,  would  think  of  gathering  acorns 
in  a  forest  which  the  San  Ygnacio  people  had  pre- 
empted. 

"This  whole  region,"  he  continued,  as  our  road 
wound  among  majestic  trees,  "has  the  touch  of  the 
Indian  everywhere  upon  it;  but  you  have  to  stay 
with  the  country  year  in  and  year  out  really  to 
learn  much.  That's  why  the  chance  traveler,  par- 
ticularly if  he  has  no  active  sympathy  with  the  red 
brother — and  he  rarely  has — is  so  ignorant  of  the 
Indian  life  and  its  impress  on  the  land.  Why, 
every  prominent  object  in  the  landscape  around  us, 
every  hill  and  rincon  and  canon,  every  oak-wood 
and  spring  and  arroyo,  almost  every  tree  that  dif- 
fers markedly  from  another,  has  its  Indian  name 
descriptive  of  its  physical  character  or  commemo- 
rating some  event  of  Indian  history  that  has  hap- 
pened there.  Indians  know  these  names  and  can 
direct  one  another  by  them  quite  as  accurately  as 
one  man  can  direct  another  about  city  streets. 

"And  here  is  the  Indian's  impress  in  another 
way;"  he  pulled  up  the  horses  and,  leaping  out, 
picked  up  a  flat,  oblong  stone  from  the  roadside. 
Though  weather-beaten,  it  showed  artificial  fashion- 
ing. "This  is  not  just  a  stone;  it  is  an  implement 
of  human  use.  Indian  hands  shaped  this  and  em- 
ployed it—hands  that  are  now  doubtless  returned 

88 


"Maria  Juana  Segunda     .     .     .     lives  in  an  upland  valley" 


A  wayside  inn  amon 


the  mountains  of  the  Santa  Barbara 
back-country 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

to  primordial  dust.  You  can  see  it  is  ancient.  It  is 
a  rubbing  stone,  useful  in  a  dozen  ways  to  the  man 
of  the  Stone  Age,  which  the  Indian,  in  his  native 
estate,  even  to-day,  really  is — such  as*  for  smooth- 
ing roughness  from  wood  or  dried  skins,  for  rubbing 
meal  to  fineness,  for  cracking  acorn  hulls  and  so 


on." 


We  were  now  trotting  down  a  grade  that  wound 
in  and  out  of  the  folds  of  the  mountain  side,  and 
opened  up  vistas  of  a  wide,  peaceful  valley,  where 
cattle,  tiny  specks  in  the  distance,  were  grazing.  It 
was  a  portion  of  the  famous  Warner  Kanch,  which 
came  rather  prominently  into  the  public  eye  nine 
or  ten  years  ago,  when  its  white  claimants  caused 
the  eviction  of  the  resident  Indians  from  this  their 
ancient  domain.  The  Government  forcibly  removed 
them  across  the  mountains  to  alien  Pala,  where  the 
ancients  of  the  tribe  are  still  unreconciled  and 
mourn  for  Cupa,  the  old  home  of  their  people,  and 
for  the  healing  waters  of  its  hot  springs. 

"There's  many  a  hidden  nook  around  this  coun- 
try," our  host  went  on,  with  a  longing  look  up  a 
canon,  "where  a  fellow  with  sharp  eyes  is  liable 
to  stumble  on  relics  of  the  old  days.  I  have  often 
found  earthenware  jars  of  Indian  make  set  away 
in  caves  or  in  the  niches  of  rocky  cliffs,  where  mes- 
quite  beans  or  acorns  were  once  c cached'  for  safety 
in  troublous  times  when  the  raiding  of  home  stores 
by  enemies  was  feared.  They  were  usually  empty, 
because  the  squirrels  had  cleaned  up  the  contents, 

89 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

but  others  I  have  found  containing  hechicero  things, 
that  is,  articles  of  one  kind  or  another  that  the 
hechiceros,  or  medicine  men,  made  use  of  in  their 
ceremonies.  Such  relics,  as  well  as  the  jars  them- 
selves, which  are  of  ancient  make,  are,  of  course, 
very  interesting  to  scientific  collectors,  but  they 
are  rare  nowadays,  and  about  the  known  ones  that 
are  still  left  in  place  the  present-day  Indians  are 
very  reluctant  to  tell  anything.  They  are  afraid 
that  if  they  help  the  white  people  to  remove  them, 
the  spirits  of  the  dead-and-gone  hechiceros  may  get 
angry  and  make  trouble  for  the  informant.  Old 
Joe,  a  Mesa  Grande  man  who  will  do  anything  for 
me,  came  to  me  quietly  one  day  and  said  that  a 
Santa  Ysabel  man  had  bragged  to  him  about  know- 
ing where  a  fine  hechicero  jar  was,  and  Joe  had  been 
'muy  coyote'  with  him,  and,  by  skilful  questioning, 
had  found  out  where  it  was.  So  Joe  and  I  set  out 
for  the  place;  but  when  we  got  there  the  jar  was 
gone.  The  other  Indian  on  second  thought  had 
evidently  grown  suspicious  that  foxy  Joe  meant 
mischief  about  the  jar  and  so  had  removed  it.  'Joe, 
him  muy  coyote,  but  Santa  Ysabel  man  him  more 
coyote,'  is  the  way  Joe  sized  up  the  incident." 

After  a  frosty  night  beneath  the  stars,  our 
blankets  spread  on  springy  beds  of  pine  needles, 
with  hot  rocks  rolled  in  barley  sacks  at  our  feet, 
we  came  in  the  sparkling  morning  to  San  Ygnacio, 
a  rancheria  of  Luiseno  Indians  in  an  upland  valley 
of  the  desert's  rocky  rim.  Here  Maria  Juana  Se- 

90 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

gunda,  plump  of  body  and  good-humored  of  spirit, 
dwells  with  her  mania,  maker  of  baskets  and  of 
acorn-meal,  and  in  a  meadow  close  by  their  house 
we  were  permitted  to  make  our  camp.  Beyond 
stretched  a  wet  cienaga  fenced  in,  where  Indian 
cattle  fed  and  where  a  little  stream,  assembling  its 
waters  beneath  an  outcropping  of  tumbled  rocks, 
issued  doughtily  forth  and  flowed  valiantly  away 
through  a  thicket  of  rustling  carrizo  reeds,  to 
quench  the  desert's  thirst — as  quixotic  an  adventure 
as  ever  a  bit  of  mountain-stream  set  out  upon. 

Now,  the  fashion  of  San  Ygnacio  is  not  unpic- 
turesque,  hidden  from  the  world  beyond  the  moun- 
tains, as  in  a  bowl.  Here  and  there  perched  upon 
the  valley's  tilted  side  are  set  the  Indians'  cabins, 
each  one-storied  of  a  room  or  two,  the  material  in 
the  better  sort  being  adobe  with  American-made 
doors  and  windows,  and  roof  of  shingles,  or  of  cedar 
shakes  split  in  the  near-by  mountains.  Others  have 
shaggy  walls  of  brush  and  stout  sunflower-stalks, 
their  roofs  a  thatch  of  tule  rush  and  carrizo  reed; 
and  against  almost  every  house  is  built  the  ramada 
or  roofed  shelter  of  brush,  a  sort  of  open-air  living- 
room  where,  on  warm  days,  the  household  work  is 
carried  on  and  meals  are  eaten.  Like  huge  bee- 
hives, dome-shaped  baskets  for  the  storage  of 
acorns  sit  upon  platforms  lifted  safely  a  man's 
height  or  more  above  the  ground,  for  the  discom- 
fiture of  pilfering  rodents;  and  dominant  over  all 
is  the  little  Catholic  chapel  with  its  squat  steeple 

91 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

beneath  the  cross.  Close  by,  enclosed  in  a  tight 
paling  fence,  is  the  campo  santo,  where,  side  by  side 
and  even  on  top  of  one  another,  departed  San 
Ygnacians  are  packed  to  the  very  fence  corners, 
each  grave  marked  with  a  wooden  cross.  As 
ground  is  cheap  in  San  Ygnacio,  we  are  for  extend- 
ing the  fence  so  as  to  do  away  with  such  unseemly 
crowding  of  the  helpless  dead,  but  Juan  Capistrano 
Siva,  who  is  showing  us  about,  enlightens  our 
American  darkness  about  that. 

"Big  campo  santo,  mala  suerte,"  says  he,  "very 
bad  luck;  much  people  have  to  die  to  fill  it  up. 
Little  campo  santo,  all  filled  up,  no  die." 

Not  far  away,  among  some  huge  bowlders,  a 
woman  is  pounding  acorns  with  a  stone,  a  shallow 
cavity  in  the  rock  serving  as  a  mortar.  Acorn-meal 
is  both  bitter  and  astringent  as  it  comes  from  the 
mortar;  but  the  Indian,  who  has  as  little  taste  as 
you  or  I  for  the  bitter  in  life,  has  found  a  way  to 
eliminate  these  qualities.  Old  Angelita's  cabin  is 
just  around  the  rocks  and  she  is  at  the  process  now 
— old  Angelita,  whose  name  means  "little  angel," 
lingering  echo  of  her  far-away  babyhood.  Now  she 
is  bent  and  rheumatic,  and  her  withered  brow  is 
swathed  in  a  blue  bandanna  handkerchief.  By  a 
rill  of  water  under  some  bushes  she  has  a  large, 
shallow  Indian  basket,  cradled  in  a  pile  of  sticks. 
Across  the  basket  is  stretched  a  cloth  of  loose 
weave,  and  upon  it  is  spread  some  fresh  acorn- 
meal.  Dipping  water  from  the  stream,  she  pours 

92 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

it  over  the  meal  and  as  the  liquid  seeps  through 
the  straining  cloth,  more  is  added.  So  at  intervals 
will  the  wetting  and  seeping  go  on  for,  perhaps, 
a  day,  until  the  bitter  nature  be  all  strained  away. 
The  result  of  this  treatment  is  a  dough,  to  be  either 
boiled  as  a  mush,  or  baked  into  bread. 

Don't  commiserate  old  Angelita,  and  say,  "Poor 
thing!"  for  having  to  live  on  acorn-meal;  for  it  is 
famously  nutritious,  rich  in  fat  and  carbo-hydrates, 
and  makes  fat  Indians.  To  civilized  palates  it  is 
at  first  rather  insipid;  but  many  white  folk  acquire 
a  fondness  for  it  and  find  acorn-mush  as  tasty  as  a 
manufactured  breakfast  food.  It  helps  towards  re- 
spect for  the  acorn  to  remember  that  botanically 
the  chestnut  is  its  first  cousin. 

At  Martina's  house,  over  the  way  from  Ange- 
lita 's,  we  find  a  basket  for  sale,  and  from  bartering 
we  drift  easily  into  chatting,  the  more  easily  be- 
cause fat  Bartolome,  her  husband,  is  at  home  and 
has  a  tongue  that  runs.  Their  place  is  a  good  ex- 
ample of  what  the  Mission  Indian  can  make  with 
his  own  hands  from  the  native  products  of  the  coun- 
try roundabout.  The  house,  with  its  brush  walls 
packed  tight  to  keep  out  the  wind,  its  thatched  tule 
roof,  and  its  stool  seat,  carved  from  a  single  block 
of  wood,  by  the  doorway,  is  as  picturesque  as  an 
Irish  peasant's  cottage.  It  and  the  barn,  with  its 
storage  basket  on  the  roof,  the  thatched  hog-pen 
and  the  temescal,  or  sweathouse  for  baths,  are  all 
the  work  of  Bartolome 's  own  hand.  Bartolome  is 

93 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

a  handy  man ;  possibly  his  father  may  have  been  a 
neophyte  at  San  Luis  Rey  in  the  Mission  days,  and 
passed  on  to  his  son  somewhat  of  his  Padre-taught 
skill.  Bartolome 's  feet  are  shod  in  leather  sandals 
of  his  own  cutting-out,  and  he  speaks  only  Spanish 
and  Luiseno.  He  was  born  in  the  desert — most  of 
these  mountain  Indian  families  spend  their  winters 
in  the  lowlands — and  was  a  boy  when  Los  Angeles 
was  still  a  little  pueblo;  so  he  has  seen  much  his- 
tory made.  He  had  worked  as  vaquero  for  Spanish 
rancher os  when  any  ranch  was  a  day's  journey 
across,  and  when  any  traveler  was  welcome  without 
a  peso  in  his  pocket,  and  a  cup  of  wine  was  always 
to  be  had  for  the  asking;  not  that  Bartolome  was 
anything  of  a  tippler — madre  de  Dios,  no — but  at 
a  fiesta,  or  of  a  Sunday  now  and  then,  a  sip  of  wine 
feels  good  in  the  throat,  and  makes  no  man  crazy 
like  this  cursed  whiskey.  And,  of  course,  he  had 
seen  the  coming  of  the  Americans,  first  one  or  two, 
then  swarms  of  them  like  flies;  and  then  the  rail- 
road and  the  hard  times,  and  now  every  man  has 
his  hand  in  your  pocket  and  all  the  world  is  for  the 
dollar.  These  Americans,  they  are  smart  traders, 
no?  You  have  to  sell;  oh,  yes,  they  buy,  but  very 
low  price ;  you  have  to  buy,  oh,  yes,  they  sell  to  you, 
but  muy  caro,  very  dear.  And,  as  for  land,  there  is 
no  more  any  land  in  all  California  an  Indian  can 
call  his  own.  Why,  when  the  Americans  want  San 
Ygnacio,  will  they  not  come  and  take  it?  Did  not 
Bartolome  know?  Had  he  not  seen  them  drive  the 

94 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

Indians  out  of  Temecula  when  he  was  a  young  man, 
and  from  the  hot  springs  of  Cupa  when  he  was  old? 
We  present  Bartolome  with  a  sack  of  tobacco  and 
Martina  with  a  pocketful  of  grapes,  and,  parting 
good  friends,  we  sally  forth  to  further  adventure. 
Our  eyes  turn  wistfully  to  the  chaparral-covered 
slopes  of  the  mountains  to  the  east  and  scan  them 
to  the  bowlder-strewn  crest  that  looks,  we  know, 
down  upon  the  desert;  and  Juan  Capistrano  Siva, 
who  loves  the  desert  and  came  from  it  but  yester- 
day, says  if  we  would  like  to  see  it  from  that  dizzy 
ridge,  he  knows  a  good  trail.  So  we  mount  horses, 
and  following  Juan's  lead  we  are  soon  hidden  head 
and  heels  in  the  brush,  now  plunging  down  into  dry 
arroyos,  now  gingerly  picking  our  way  along  nar- 
row shelves  of  rock  above  some  canon's  yawning 
jaws,  now  scrambling  up  sandy  steeps  down  which 
our  ponies'  sliding  heels  push  loose  stones,  cracking 
and  bounding  into  depths  behind.  Our  legs  are 
pricked  with  cactus  spines  and  yucca  daggers,  and 
our  faces  whipped  by  the  thorny  branches  of  grease- 
wood  and  buck-brush  that  stretch  across  the  trail 
that  would  be  no  trail  to  any  but  an  Indian's  keen 
sight;  and  so  we  come  by  and  by  to  the  last  pitch 
of  all,  where  a  chaos  of  gray  rock,  belched  up  in 
some  fiery  geologic  day,  is  not  negotiable  by  horses. 
Here  dismounting  and  tying  the  animals,  we  clam- 
ber, hand  and  foot,  tooth  and  nail,  up  the  rest  of 
the  way  until  we  stand  upon  the  ridge  that  divides 
desert  and  coast  country.  Before  us  the  mountains 

95 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

fall  sharply  away,  and  there  below  us  spread  out 
as  a  map,  in  the  stillness  of  the  waning  afternoon, 
lies  that  co-equal  with  mountain  and  sea  and  sky  in 
elemental  majesty,  the  desert — "the  country  of  lost 
borders, "  "the  land  of  little  rain,"  "God's  garden " 
— what  you  will. 

Purple  shadows  flung  down  by  our  mountain's 
height  were  laying  cool  hands  upon  the  shimmering 
sands,  and  through  a  palpitating  mist  that  hung 
upon  it,  gleamed  the  waters  of  the  Salton  Sea.  Far 
beyond  dimly  rose  the  bastioned  walls  that  are  the 
southern  boundary  of  the  Mojave  Desert;  to  the 
east  and  southeast,  above  the  haze,  swam  peaks  we 
could  not  name,  glowing  in  the  late  light  like 
islands  of  a  dream — peaks  of  Arizona,  doubtless,  and 
some  of  Old  Mexico.  Juan's  eyes  glistened  as  he 
looked,  and  his  Indian  reserve  gave  way  to  real 
enthusiasm  as  he  told  of  his  sixty-mile  ride  the  day 
before  on  horseback  from  Indio,  alone  across  the 
sands  to  Rattlesnake  Canon,  where  it  cuts  into  the 
shoulder  of  San  Jacinto ;  then  by  this  trail  and  that 
— Juan  pointed  them  out  as  he  talked,  and  was  very 
patient  with  our  white  stupidity  when  we  could  not 
see  twenty  miles  away  what  was  as  plain  to  him  as 
the  nose  on  your  face — then  down  into  Coyote  Pass 
and  around  by  Lost  Valley  into  San  Ygnacio;  and 
how  he  had  seen  a  deer  at  Pinon  Flat  and  moun- 
tain-lion tracks  near  Horsethief  Creek;  and  he  de- 
scribed minutely  where  all  the  water  holes  were. 
From  the  white  man's  point  of  view,  really  nothing 

96 


The  ruined  San  Diego  Mission  still  marks  the  early  activi- 
ties of  the  padres 


The  Night  of  the  Candles  in  the  little  campo  santo  at  Mesa 
Grande 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

noteworthy  had  occurred  on  Juan's  long  ride;  but  to 
the  Indian  all  nature  is  of  intensest  interest.  He 
marks  the  flight  of  a  bird  and  is  not  satisfied  till  he 
has  identified  the  kind;  he  hears  a  twig  crack — 
his  old  nature  is  alert  to  solve  the  problem  of  what 
broke  it ;  a  fresh  track  across  the  trail  he  travels  is 
as  vital  to  him  as  to  us  a  telegram — is  it  a  coyote, 
or  a  deer  or  a  rabbit?  Other  business  of  life  stops 
till  he  has  found  out.  So  the  sixty  miles  between 
Indio  and  San  Ygnacio  had  given  Juan  matter 
enough  to  discourse  about  for  a  month  or  two. 

"And  do  you  know  any  place,  Juan,"  asked  our 
host  as  we  descended  the  mountain  towards  San 
Ygnacio,  "  hereabout  or  in  the  desert,  where  old  ollas 
are  hidden  away?" 

And  Juan  returned  the  usual  answer  of  the  young 
school-taught  Indian  to  questions  about  the  old  days 
and  their  ways: 

"No,  seiior,  the  old  people  they  knew  about  old 
thing  like  that ;  the  young  people  they  do  not  know 
about  it." 

The  night  was  chilly  even  by  our  camp-fire,  when 
supper  was  over,  and  we  repaired  to  Maria  Juana  's 
cabin  for  a  bit  of  chat  before  retiring.  A  fire  was 
burning  in  her  ample  fire-place,  and  Maria  Juana 's 
mama  was  a-squat  on  the  hearth,  working  up  her 
basket  material  by  the  flickering  flame.  Maria  Ju- 
ana herself,  as  became  one  who  had  dwelt  among 
white  folk,  sat  properly  in  a  chair  by  a  table  on 
which  was  a  kerosene  lamp.  She  gossiped  pleas- 

97 


UNDEE  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

antly  in  English,  in  a  soft,  motherly  voice,  trans- 
lating, from  time  to  time,  into  Luiseno  such  tidbits 
of  what  we  told  as  she  thought  her  mama  would 
enjoy.  Mesa  Grande  is  Diegueno  country  and  like 
a  foreign  land  to  Luiseno  San  Ygnacio,  and  Maria 
Juana  and  her  mama  would  laugh  heartily  when  our 
host  would  give  them  the  Diegueno  word  for  one 
of  theirs — it  was  so  strange  that  words  of  such  di- 
verse sound  should  mean  the  same;  and,  when  he 
sang  them  a  Diegueno  song,  dramatically  illustrated 
with  the  motions  of  the  dance  and  as  though  he  held 
g,  rattle,  the  two  women's  eyes  sparkled  and  their 
faces  were  aglow  in  their  interest. 

"That  is  funny  words,"  said  Maria  Juana,  "but 
it  is  nice,  too,  I  think,"  and  her  mama's  eyes  had 
a  reminiscent  look  as  of  a  bygone  day  when  she, 
too,  sang  the  songs  of  her  people.  We  coaxed  her 
to  sing  one  to  us  now,  but  she  would  not — she  had 
forgotten,  she  said;  but  perhaps  she  was  only  shy. 

So  the  talk  turned  on  other  things — on  poor 
Teofilo  who  was  died  long  time  ago  and  Natividad, 
who  was  marry — did  we  not  know?  And  of  how 
Bautista  killed  the  mountain  sheep  one  time,  and  of 
who  was  got  sick  and  who  was  got  well.  So  many 
sick  peoples  now  in  Coahuilla  country ;  they  got  the 
consumption,  the  doctor  calls  it.  Maria  Juana 
could  not  understand  what  makes  them  so  sick. 
"That  consumption  now,"  she  says  in  quaint  won- 
derment, "I  don't  know  what  makes  it— it  did  not 
use  to  be."  And  did  we  know  that  old  Jose  was 

98 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

died  in  Los  Angeles,  and  before  he  died,  he  told  the 
peoples  he  could  not  be  happy  for  afterwards,  un- 
less he  was  bury  in  the  campo  santo  of  the  old 
rancheria  at  San  Felipe  where  he  was  born ;  and  so 
his  people  brought  his  body  and  now  it  was  bury 
just  as  he  wanted,  there  in  the  old  campo  santo  by 
the  desert  in  the  sun;  so  he  would  be  happy,  old 
Jose. 

Day  comes  to  San  Ygnacio 's  tiny  valley  in  an  ex- 
quisiteness  that  city  dwellers  know  not  of — first, 
a  flush  of  red  in  the  east,  then  all  about  is  a  feeling 
of  virgin  light  as  mysterious  and  pure  as  though  a 
Holy  Grail  drew  near,  and,  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye,  the  wan  peaks  of  the  chalky  mountain  barrier 
to  the  west  leap  into  vivid  life,  reflecting  upon  San 
Ygnacio  the  warmth  of  glory  of  the  risen  sun  come 
through  the  shining  gateways  of  the  desert.  And 
soon  we  are  rolling  up  our  blankets  and  tossing 
flapjacks  over  the  campfire  and  eating  them,  and 
bidding  good-bye  to  Maria  Juana  and  her  mama; 
and  then  the  colts,  bursting  their  very  jackets  with 
the  thoughts  of  home,  are  hitting  the  high  places 
with  us  along  the  Indian  road  through  the  chapar- 
ral, and  San  Ygnacio  is  a  tale  that  is  told. 

The  sun  was  just  nearing  the  western  rim  of 
mountains  when  we  came  in  sight  of  Mesa  Grande, 
in  its  bowl-like  valley,  and  people  were  wending 
their  way  singly  and  in  families  to  the  little  campo 
santo,  fenced  about  with  white  palings  beside  the 
church  at  the  edge  of  the  rancheria.  All  day,  work- 

99 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

ers  with  hoes  and  brooms,  had  been  busily  clearing 
it  of  weeds  and  litter,  in  preparation  for  this  La 
Noche  de  las  Velas—ihe  Night  of  the  Candles.  We 
tied  our  team  to  a  fence,  and  joined  the  gathering 
throng,  which  included,  besides  the  Indians,  many 
white  visitors  from  the  surrounding  country,  to 
whom  any  Indian  " doings"  are  a  recreation,  like 
the  circus,  not  to  be  missed.  Just  as  the  sun  dis- 
appeared below  the  mountains,  and  shadow  filled 
the  valley,  men,  women  and  children  passed  through 
the  gate  into  the  cemetery  and  began  setting  candles 
upright  in  the  earth  about  the  graves,  and  lighting 
them;  each  being  cared  for  by  the  surviving  rela- 
tives of  the  departed.  Everywhere  in  the  rapidly 
falling  dusk,  stooping  figures  passed  slowly  about 
amid  the  graves  and  wooden  crosses,  making  sure 
of  the  resting  places  they  were  in  search  of,  and 
then  bending  to  shield  the  candles'  incipient  flicker 
from  the  wind,  waited  till  the  flame  was  set. 

Here  a  mother  teaches  her  little  child  to  stand 
the  lights  about  its  father's  grave;  and  next  to  them 
is  the  bent  figure  of  an  aged  woman  with  many 
mounds  to  dress — like  the  widow  of  Scripture,  cast- 
ing in  of  her  penury  perhaps  all  the  living  that  she 
had,  for  candles  run  into  money  when  you  have 
to  buy  them  by  the  dozen ;  and  over  here  is  old  Joe, 
bareheaded  and  clad  in  a  second-hand  overcoat,  fix- 
ing, with  unsteady  hand,  four  tallow  tapers  upon  his 
dead  wife's  resting-place.  The  faces  of  all  are 
grave;  but  we  notice  no  assumption  of  sadness. 

100 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

The  Indian  may  hide  his  feelings;  but  he  is  not 
hypocrite  enough  to  put  on  the  semblance  of  grief 
to  suit  an  occasion.  Yet  this  is  serious  business 
and  it  is  conducted  seriously.  About  the  center  of 
the  campo  santo  where  a  great  cross  stands,  a  con- 
siderable knot  of  people  are  gathered  placing  lights 
so  thickly  that  the  spot  glows  like  a  campfire.  They 
are  for  those  remembered  dead  who  have  been 
buried  away  from  the  old  home. 

It  is  quite  dark  when  all  the  graves  are  alight, 
and  now  grouped  before  the  candles  of  the  absent 
dead,  kneeling  figures  chant  a  litany  of  the  Church, 
strikingly  solemn  in  the  open  air  in  the  midst  of 
the  enveloping  blackness  of  night ;  and  this  finished, 
the  air  is  suddenly  filled  with  that  most  heartbreak- 
ing of  human  sounds,  the  quavering,  sobbing  death- 
wail  of  the  elder  Indian  women,  mourning  for  the 
lives  that  have  entered  within  the  veil.  It  lasts 
but  a  short  time,  and  then  slowly  and  quietly  the 
crowd  files  out  of  the  cemetery,  leaving  its  dead  in 
a  world  of  lighted  candles,  to  be  as  lamps  to  the 
feet  of  them  who  tread  the  dark  trails  of  purgatory 
—for  this  is  the  significance  of  the  ceremony. 

As  we  drove  out  of  the  valley,  we  drew  rein  on 
the  ridge  and  looked  back.  In  the  houses  of  the 
rancheria  fresh  fires  were  gleaming,  and  suppers 
were  being  eaten;  the  living  were  again  taking  up 
the  joys  of  living,  and,  by  and  by,  would  be  playing 
peon  till  morning.  On  the  dark  hillside,  the  while, 
the  little  campo  santo  bore  its  glowing  testimony  of 

101 


UNDEE  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFOENIA 

light  like  a  seed  of  faith  in  a  benighted  world;  and 
just  outside  its  circle  of  brightness  in  a  black  hol- 
low, in  ground  unconsecrate,  shone  two  tiny  sparks 
— the  flames  of  candles  set,  we  were  told,  upon  the 
unsanctified  grave  of  one  who  had  murdered  a 
United  States  constable  and  himself  been  murdered 
in  return.  The  Church  could  not  receive  such,  dy- 
ing unshriven  and  in  crime,  so  he  was  laid  without 
the  pale;  but,  as  each  recurring  year  brings  around 
La  Noche  de  las  Velas,  two  candles  are  lit  for  him, 
also.  He  needs  the  light,  if  any  does,  and  his  people 
do  not  forget. 


102 


SPRING  DAYS  IN  A  CARRIAGE 

I.    PKELIMINAKIES 

IT  is  safe  to  say  that  ninety-nine  out  of  every  hun- 
dred visitors  in  California  miss  one  of  its  pleas- 
antest  possibilities, — the  little  driving  trip.  When 
you  ask  one  of  the  ninety-nine  just  returned  from 
the  Coast,  "Did  you  take  many  carriage  trips?" 
You  get  for  an  answer,  "Why,  no;  you  see  the  rail- 
roads and  the  electric  cars  take  you  into  all  the 
sights;"  or  "Of  course  not,  we  had  our  automobile 
shipped  out  and  went  everywhere  in  that."  Yet 
to  our  mind,  the  trip  par  excellence  is  the  carriage 
trip.  Its  leisureliness  comports  particularly  with 
the  spirit  of  this  land  of  the  afternoon,  and  it  pos- 
sesses the  practical  advantage  over  motoring  of  per- 
mitting many  an  interesting  short  cut  and  detour 
from  the  best-roads  districts,  not  feasible  with  com- 
fort in  an  automobile. 

In  California,  and  particularly  in  Southern  Cali- 
fornia, the  traveler  by  unbeaten  ways  meets  with  a 
minimum  of  difficulties.  The  roads  as  a  rule  are 
good;  the  weather,  after  the  rainy  season  is  past, 
say  in  April  or  May,  settles  down  to  a  succession 
of  heavenly  days  as  fresh  and  balmy  and  sparkling 
as  those  first-created  days  of  time's  dawn  must  have 

103 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

been;  accommodations  for  man  and  beast  may 
readily  be  had  at  the  end  of  each  day's  journey; 
and  the  country  through  which  one  travels  is  not 
only  radiantly  beautiful  in  its  fresh  green  and 
wealth  of  wild  blooms,  but  filled  with  much  of  his- 
toric interest. 

The  prospect  of  such  a  trip  extending  over  a 
period  of  about  two  weeks,  appealed  to  us  vigor- 
ously one  April  day,  after  reading  "Kamona,"  and 
we  decided  unanimously  to  lay  our  itinerary  through 
some  of  the  country  made  famous  by  that  romance. 
It  was  our  first  year  in  California  and  we  knew 
little  of  its  geography,  but  with  the  aid  of  the  ac- 
curate maps  of  the  United  States  Geological  Survey 
we  planned  a  route  in  advance  that  should  find  us 
every  night  in  some  settlement  where  there  should 
be  a  roof  to  shelter  us.  Then,  too,  we  set  on  foot  dili- 
gent inquiries  among  our  friends  as  to  the  available 
comforts  and  general  characteristics  of  each  place. 
The  data  thus  secured  we  set  down  in  orderly 
fashion  in  the  note-book  for  reference  as  we  trav- 
eled. The  next  step  was  to  engage  a  strong,  gentle 
horse  tested  in  many  drives  during  the  previous 
winter  and  known  to  be  fearless  of  electric  cars  and 
automobiles — never  start  with  a  strange  horse  on  a 
protracted  trip — and  a  stout  top-buggy  roomy 
enough  to  hold  the  needful  baggage  and  supplies 
which  will  be  referred  to  in  detail  in  a  subsequent 
chapter. 

We  made  our  preparations  to  cook  the  noonday 

104 


SPRING  DAYS  IN  A  CARRIAGE 

meal  under  the  sky  by  the  roadside,  stowing  in  the 
back  part  of  the  buggy-box  the  provisions  for  sev- 
eral meals,  and  the  cooking  utensils,  packed  sepa- 
rately in  two  chip  baskets,  so  as  to  be  conveniently 
lifted  in  and  out.  This  plan  was  partly  to  insure 
one  substantial  meal  each  day  amid  the  culinary 
uncertainties  of  a  country  which,  it  may  as  well  be 
frankly  said,  has  much  to  learn  in  the  cook's  art; 
and  partly  for  the  benefit  of  a  good  rest  and  noon- 
tide grazing  for  the  horse.  While  such  a  procedure 
in  the  East  would  be  apt  to  stamp  the  participants 
as  gypsies,  it  is  taken  quite  as  a  matter  of  course 
in  California,  where  people  whom  one  passes  on 
highway  or  trail  dressed  in  dusty  khaki  and  driving 
their  pack  animals  before  them,  are,  as  likely  as 
not,  personages  whose  next  appearance  may  be  in 
faultless  evening  dress  at  some  social  function. 

II.     CAMULOS 

To  be  in  harmony  with  the  "Ramona"  motif,  it 
seemed  fitting  to  start  from  Santa  Barbara,  from 
the  serene  shades  of  whose  beautiful  Mission  Father 
Salvierderra  was  wont  to  set  out  on  foot  upon  his 
periodical  visits  to  the  Senora  Moreno's  ranch. 
The  highroad  follows  the  sea  to  Carpinteria,  thence 
through  the  lovely  Casitas  Passes  to  Ventura,  an- 
other Mission  town;  then  turning  inland  takes  one, 
an  easy  day's  travel,  by  the  Camulos  Rancho,  well 
known  as  the  place  of  which  Mrs.  Jackson  made  a 

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UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

special  study  for  the  local  color  of  the  Moreno  es- 
tate in  her  novel.  The  courteous  Spanish  family 
who  owned  and  lived  on  the  ranch  when  the  novel- 
ist made  her  two-hour  visit  there,  are  still  occu- 
pants and  if  approached  with  the  consideration  to 
which  their  station  entitles  them,  are  glad  to  show 
and  explain  points  of  interest  about  the  place. 
Time  was  when  in  true  Spanish  fashion,  hospitality 
was  extended  in  a  princely  manner,  and  all  visitors, 
whatever  the  number,  were  treated  as  guests;  but 
the  inability  on  the  part  of  average  American  tour- 
ists to  receive  such  attention  in  the  spirit  in  which 
it  was  given,  and  their  outrageous  disregard  of  the 
family's  rights  and  feelings,  have  led  to  a  discon- 
tinuance of  the  freedom  of  the  house  to  the  unin- 
vited. 

The  nearest  public  accommodation  to  Camulos  is 
a  plain  but  comfortable  hostelry  at  Piru,  two  miles 
distant,  which  we  made  the  terminus  of  our  day's 
drive  from  Ventura.  Next  morning  as  we  drove 
along  the  road  that  winds  up  the  little  valley  of  the 
Rio  Santa  Clara,  whose  waters  flow  through  Cam- 
ulos, all  the  earth  seemed  one  great  jewel  sparkling 
in  the  bright  sunshine.  The  fragrance  of  a  myriad 
flowers  sweetened  the  dewy  air,  and  the  meadow 
larks  and  red-throated  linnets  raised  their  cheery 
carols  from  fence  post  and  telegraph  pole.  Now 
and  again  we  drove  through  thickets  of  wild  mus- 
tard, higher  than  a  man,  as  in  Ramona's  time,  and 
covered  with  golden  bloom.  The  great,  swelling 

106 


SPRING  DAYS  IN  A  CARRIAGE 

lills,  so  characteristic  of  the  coast  region  of  South- 
ern California,  treeless  but  verdure  clad,  lifted  their 
rounded  heads  on  both  sides  of  our  valley  road ;  and 
on  the  summit  of  one,  outlined  against  the  blue  sky 
ahead  of  us,  stood  a  slender  wooden  cross.  We  re- 
membered the  Senora  Moreno's  reminders  for  heret- 
ical Americans  and  knew  that  Camulos  must  be 
near. 

Shortly  the  white  walls  of  the  rambling  ranch 
house  shone  through  a  screen  of  trees,  and  hitching 
our  horse  without  the  gate,  we  walked  across  a 
bridge  spanning  a  little  stream  where  white  ducks 
were  swimming,  and  in  another  moment  we  were 
looking  into  the  courtyard  of  Ramona's  home.  The 
sunlight  lay  warm  and  bright  in  the  peaceful  en- 
closure; there  was  a  fragrance  of  roses  in  the  still 
air,  and  far  away  somewhere  beyond  the  house  the 
harsh,  insistent  cry  of  a  pea-fowl.  Across  the  patio 
a  door  banged  and  a  Japanese  boy  walked  briskly 
along  the  far  corridor  and  disappeared  within  the 
house.  At  the  kitchen  window  near  us  a  Mexican 
man-cook  glanced  indifferently  at  us.  Evidently 
Old  Marda  was  dead. 

The  front  of  the  house,  as  readers  of  "Ramona" 
will  remember,  is  turned  away  from  the  highroad. 
It  faces  a  shady  garden  and  the  cultivated  lands 
of  the  rancho  with  its  orange  and  almond  groves,  its 
vineyards  and  pomegranate  hedges;  and  as  we 
stood  before  the  wide  veranda  speculating  as  to 
Ramona's  window  and  the  Father  Salvierderra's, 

107 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

there  stepped  from  the  house  a  bright-faced  young 
girl,  whose  black  hair,  olive  skin  and  vivacious  eyes 
proclaimed  her  Spanish  blood.  Evidently  it  was  she 
to  whom  we  should  speak. 

" Maybe  you  would  like  to  see  the  chapel,"  she 
suggested.  "Yes?  Then  the  little  girl  will  show 
it  you.  O  Frasquita,  ven  aqui!" 

A  little  Mexican  maid  came  running  from  within, 
bringing  a  jingling  bunch  of  keys,  and  piloted  us  into 
the  garden. 

"When  you  are  through, "  called  the  senorita, 
"maybe  you  would  like  to  eat  your  lunch  under  the 
big  walnut  tree.  It  is  cool  there. " 

So  we  were  let  into  the  little  rustic  chapel  within 
the  garden's  shade,  and  saw  an  altar  cloth  as  white 
and  fresh  as  though  just  from  Ramona's  hands. 
And  Frasquita  told  us  all  the  news  about  the 
chapel,  how  they  had  to  keep  it  locked  now,  for 
the  American  visitors  they  would  have  carried 
everything  away  for — what  you  call? — keepsake, 
yes;  and  once  they  did — Mother  of  God,  the  here- 
tics!— steal  a  holy  crucifix  that  had  been  the  fam- 
ily's for  a  hundred — two  hundred — yes,  two  hun- 
dred years  maybe;  and  how  they  still  hold  services 
in  the  chapel  once  a  month,  and  Father  John  comes 
up  from  Ventura,  and  there  is  mass,  and  everybody 
attends  from  the  rancho,  and  sometimes  some  of  the 
neighbors,  too.  0  yes,  a  gift  for  the  chapel  T  Many, 
many  thanks ;  and  adios,  Senora ;  adios,  Senor. 

As  we  sat  under  the  shade  of  the  huge  walnut  tree 

108 


« 


The  south  front  of  Ramona's  home  is  bright  with  sunshine 


SPRING  DAYS  IN  A  CARRIAGE 

which  is  a  special  pride  of  Canmlos,  at  the  end  of  the 
ranch  house,  the  Senorita  came  by  and  smiled. 

" We  work  at  the  orange  packing,"  she  remarked, 
with  an  apologetic  glance  at  her  workaday  attire, 
" maybe  you  would  like  to  see?  Over  there  in  that 
building  we  are,  where  the  teams  are  unloading  the 
boxes.  They  have  just  come  in  from  the  trees,  and 
I  must  hurry;"  and  off  she  ran. 

We  followed  at  leisure,  and  entering  the  long 
barnlike  building,  had  our  first  sight  of  an  orange- 
packing.  The  golden  balls  were  tumbled  from  the 
wagons  into  a  great  hopper,  out  of  which  they  ran 
by  gravity  in  a  long  single  file  down  a  narrow  trough 
the  bottom  of  which  was  perforated  by  holes  of  vari- 
ous sizes,  permitting  the  oranges  of  the  correspond- 
ing sizes  to  fall  through  into  compartments  beneath. 
Each  compartment  thus  was  fed  with  fruit  all  of 
the  same  size.  A  half  dozen  laughing  girls,  of 
whom  the  senorita  was  one,  sat  deftly  wrapping  the 
assorted  oranges  in  thin  paper  and  packing  them  in 
their  boxes  for  shipment.  The  wrapping  and  pack- 
ing went  forward  as  rapidly  as  the  fruit  dropped, 
and  as  each  box  was  filled,  it  was  lifted  away  by  a 
man  and  nailed  up,  ready  for  transportation  to  the 
car  that  lay  upon  the  siding  a  hundred  rods  away. 

The  Senorita  smiled  brightly  upon  us  and  enjoyed 
our  enjoyment  in  the  novel  sight. 

"Yes,  I  like  the  packing,  too;  it  is  pretty  seeing 
the  oranges  roll  along  and  drop  each  down  into  the 
box  with  the  others  of  just  their  size.  It  is  like  life, 

109 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

no?  the  great  folks  gathering  together  by  them- 
selves and  the  humble  little  people  by  themselves, 
too. ' '  And  she  laughed  merrily  at  her  fancy. 

"But  there  isn't  much  money  in  the  business  for 
the  poor  orange  raiser.  There  is  the  scale  to  fight 
always,  and  the  pruning  to  do,  and  the  help  to  pay 
for  the  picking,  and  the  packing,  and  the  freight  to 
the  railroads — oh,  the  robbers  that  they  are — and 
after  it  all,  if  we  have  twenty-five  cents  a  box  left 
for  ourselves  we  are  lucky.  That's  just  enough  to 
keep  us  from  getting  far  from  home,  and  I  should 
so  like  to  travel.  Oh,  to  see  the  world— New  Or- 
leans and  New  York  and  old  Mexico — would  it  not 
be  beautiful!  But  we  may  as  well  be  as  happy  as 
we  can — and  it  is  a  beautiful  world  right  here,  eh, 
Pedro,  you  rascal!" — stroking  a  big  black  cat  that 
rubbed  up  against  her — "for  oh,  we  shall  be  a  long 
time  dead!" 

III.     CAPISTKANO 

From  Camulos,  the  Santa  Susana  Mountains 
crossed,  it  is  a  pleasant  road  through  the  olive  or- 
chards, the  barley-fields  and  the  berry  ranches  of 
the  San  Fernando  Valley,  past  the  ruined  Mission 
of  San  Fernando,  homely  of  aspect  in  its  present 
low  estate  but  interesting  to  the  Mission  enthusi- 
ast; through  Pasadena,  and  San  Gabriel,  through 
the  walnut  groves  of  Whittier  to  Santa  Ana  and 
thence  to  Capistrano,  where  we  arrived  on  the  even- 
ing of  our  fourth  day  out. 

110 


SPRING  DAYS  IN  A  CARRIAGE 

Fair  in  the  evening  light,  the  crumbling  walls  of 
the  most  poetic  of  all  the  Missions,  "the  Melrose  of 
the   West,"    outlined   themselves    against   a   back- 
ound  of  hills  clothed  in  living  green.     The  shad- 
s  lay  long  in  the  old  deserted  garden  with  its 
hite  oleanders  and  scarlet  geraniums,  where  once 
e  Padres  walked  in  the  cool  of  the  day  and  medi- 
ted;  and  instead  of  the  spiritual  songs  that  as- 
nded  a  century  ago  from  worshiping  congrega- 
ons  in  the  great  church,  the  air  was  filled  with 
e  whir  and  twitter  of  hundreds  of  swallows  flying 
and  out  of  their  mud  nests  built  far  up  on  the 
alls  of  the  roofless  ruin.    Time  has  laid  a  kindly 
nd  on  the  broken  pillars  and  buttresses,  mellow- 
ing the  color  of  the  plaster  to  soft  pinks  and  yellows, 
d  brightening  the  gaps  with  tiny  gardens  of  wild 
loom,  sown  by  the  winds  and  the  birds.    In  one  of 
the  rooms  opening  off  the  cloistered  quadrangle  we 
found  a  Mexican  wood  carver  at  work,  patiently 
piecing  together  parts  of  broken,  wooden  saints  for 
the  chapel;  brightening  up  their  time-dimmed  fea- 
tures, and  gilding  their  halos  anew.    He  was  a  so- 
ciable child  of  the  sun,  none  too  well  pleased  with 
the  dim  light  of  his  thick-walled  cell,  and  glad  of 
!   some  one  to  talk  to. 

"Yes,  senor  cdballero,"  he  observed,  rolling  the 
inevitable  cigarette,  "it's  pleasant  work  enough, 
and  it's  good  for  the  soul  to  be  doing  something  for 
the  Church;  but  it's  dull  business  seeing  nobody  for 
days  together."  Then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders, 

111 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

before  adding,  "Of  course,  some  days  too  many 
come — these  American  tourists — pardon  me,  senor, 
but  you  are  not  their  kind — and  then,  santa  Maria 
purisima!  you  must  watch  or  they  will  carry  off  the 
last  stone.  Pieces  of  the  wall,  branches  of  ivy  torn 
from  the  pillars,-  tiles  from  the  roof,  brick  from  the 
cloister  pavement — everything  would  go,  if  we  let  it. 
Why,  sefior,  will  you  believe  me,  once  they  stole  the 
gold  crown  from  the  Blessed  Virgin's  head  at  the 
altar ;  but  the  heretics  were  caught  and  had  to  give 
it  back.  Hombre!  Some  people  when  they  go 
sightseeing,  have  neither  manners  nor  religion. " 

On  every  hand  were  subjects  appealing  to  the  ar- 
tistic sense,  but  the  descending  night  made  any 
sketching  or  photographing  out  of  the  question  un- 
til morning.  We  would  spend  the  whole  of  the  next 
day,  however,  in  the  enchanting  spot,  and  so,  agog 
with  enthusiasm,  we  sought  our  room  and  went 
early  to  bed.  Sometime  in  the  night,  a  sound 
awakened  me,  the  patter  of  rain  upon  the  roof.  By 
morning  there  was  a  steady  downpour  without  a 
rift  in  the  leaden  sky.  We  made  some  remarks  to 
the  chambermaid  about  having  understood  that  it 
never  rained  in  Southern  California  after  the 
middle  of  April.  She  said  she  didn't  know  much 
about  this  climate,  having  been  here  only  a  few 
months — she  was  from  back  East  herself — but  she 
had  heard  the  boss  say  he  thought  we  were  in  for  a 
three  days'  storm. 

We  sighed.    Accommodations   were  exceeding!; 

112 


SPEING  DAYS  IN  A  CAEEIAGE 

poor.  Our  room  was  cold,  of  course;  no  dyed-in- 
the-wool  Southern  Californian  would  think  of  sup- 
plying fire  in  your  room — it  would  be  an  insult  to 
the  climate.  There  were  leaks  in  the  ceiling.  The 
public  sitting-room,  normally  cheerless  and  dark, 
was  made  more  so  that  morning  by  the  concentrated 
gloom  of  an  assemblance  of  three  or  four  other 
storm-stayed  travelers  who  had  nothing  to  do  but 
read  back-number  literature  and  grumble  about  the 
weather.  Even  the  prospect  of  a  good  dinner  was 
denied  us,  for  never  elsewhere,  East  or  West,  had 
we  encountered  the  like  of  the  bill-of-f are  offered  by 
that  rustic  hostelry — with  its  fried  onions,  boiled  cab- 
bage, rank  butter,  and  bloody  bones  of  bull  steak — 
served  on  cold,  greasy  plates  upon  a  grimy  table 
cloth.  Alas  for  the  sunshine  of  Camulos,  the  radi- 
ance of  the  San  Fernando  Valley,  the  happy  gypsy 
meals  by  the  flowery  roadsides ;  alas  for  our  carriage 
trip — was  it  to  end  like  this? 

The  day  dragged  wearily  on.  Sylvia,  wrapped  in 
a  shawl  and  coat,  attempted  to  work  at  a  dejected 
sketch  in  our  chamber;  while  I  sat  drearily  writing 
up  my  notes  in  a  corner  of  the  public  sitting-room 
where  there  was  a  shred  of  fire  smoldering  in  a 
rusty  grate.  Matters  were  not  helped  any  by  the 
cheerful  assurance  of  our  hostess  that  a  rain  like 
this  would  cause  all  the  rivers  between  there  and 

in  Diego,  several  of  which  were  on  our  map  to  be 

mossed,  to  rise  so  as  to  be  unfordable  for  at  least 

week. 

113 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFOKNIA 

"But  it  won't  wash  away  the  bridges/'  said  I 
anxiously. 

"Caramba!"  she  replied,  startled  into  Spanish  by 
such  crass  ignorance,  "there  are  no  bridges!" 

She  would  advise  our  staying  where  we  were  till 
the  waters  went  down;  or — for,  bless  you,  she  did 
not  want  us  to  think  she  was  seeking  to  profit  by  our 
misfortune — we  might  ship  the  team  home  by  freight 
and  go  back  ourselves  on  the  train.  Only  she  felt  it 
her  duty  to  warn  us  about  those  rivers. 

It  was  a  dreadful  dilemma,  either  horn  of  which 
it  was  out  of  the  question  for  us  to  consider;  and 
after  a  glance  at  an  equally  impossible  supper,  we 
again  sought  our  room.  The  Government  map  was 
spread  out  on  the  table,  and  gone  minutely  over 
with  a  view  to  discovering  some  road  that  went  in- 
land whereby  we  might  go  around  the  dreadful  riv- 
ers, but  the  mountain  range  that  hedges  in  the  coast 
country  set  a  veto  upon  any  such  program.  There 
was  but  the  one  road  and  we  were  on  it.  Under 
such  circumstances  the  man  of  the  party  naturally 
felt  the  responsibility  of  procedure,  and  as  I  tossed 
the  map  into  the  satchel,  I  observed  savagely: 

"It  was  folly  anyhow  to  undertake  a  trip  of  this 
kind  through  a  half-settled  country.  These  outdoor 
trips  are  lotteries  even  in  a  civilized  land,  but  here 
there's  nothing  to  fall  back  on  if  you  come  to  grief. 
The  idea  of  there  being  no  bridges !  In  my  opinion, 
there's  not  much  to  California  anyhow  except  its 
climate  and  even  that  is  not  what  it  is  cracked  up 

114 


SPRING  DAYS  IN  A  CARRIAGE 

to  be.  If  those  idiots  in  Santa  Barbara  who  sent  us 
on  this  carriage  trip,  had  only  warned  us  of  what 
we  might  expect,  we'd  have  known  better  than  to 
come." 

I  saw  a  look  of  sympathetic  comprehension  come 
into  Sylvia's  face.  To  the  eternal  feminine  the 
spring  of  the  trouble  was  evident. 

"Here  are  the  rubbers,  put  them  on,"  she  ob- 
served; "take  the  umbrella,  and  go  down  to  the 
buggy.  There  are  some  things  to  eat  in  the  right- 
hand  basket ;  please  bring  them  all  up  here,  and  the 
tea-pot,  too." 

In  half  an  hour  there  was  a  spread  upon  the  table 
worthy  of  a  college  impromptu.  The  alcohol  lamp 
which  goes  with  us  on  every  trip,  burned  merrily; 
the  tea-pot  purred;  the  frizzled  beef  sent  out  an 
aroma  of  comfort;  the  bread  was  like  mother's,  for 
it  was  home-baked,  supplied  us  by  a  discerning 
friend  in  Pasadena  who  had  "roughed  it"  and  knew ; 
and  the  butter  was  sweet — it  had  been  laid  in  fresh 
at  Santa  Ana,  the  day  before.  There  was  a  crown- 
ing touch  from  somewhere  of  canned  peaches.  Our 
starving  stomachs  returned  practical  thanks  in  a 
quiet  tide  of  serenity  that  took  possession  of  our 
frames.  What  matter  that  the  rains  descended,  and 
that  overcoats  and  capes  had  to  be  donned  in  a  fire- 
less  room?  A  happy  inspiration  brought  the  hot- 
water  bags  to  mind,  and  these  were  fished  up  from 
the  baggage,  filled,  and  one  laid  in  each  lap.  So 
with  this  heat  without,  and  the  joyous  radiance  of 

115 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

our  normal  life  restored  within,  whence  it  shone 
out  into  the  little  room  lighted  by  one  smoky  lamp, 
we  looked  forward  to  the  developments  of  the  mor- 
row with  the  proverbial  serenity  of  one  who  has 
dined  to-day. 

Recall  if  you  can  the  cool,  crisp  mornings  of  your 
childhood's  Octobers  when  the  air  sparkled  like  an 
elixir,  and  you  know  the  sort  of  morning  that 
greeted  us  when  we  opened  our  eyes  to  the  sun  next 
day.  The  tender  blue  of  the  California  sky,  the 
dazzling  green  hills,  flower-bedecked  here  and  there, 
the  look  of  everything  as  if  Nature  had  washed  her 
face  and  hands  and  come  out  to  play — all  these 
things  called  to  us  to  be  up  and  make  an  early  start. 

"But  hombre,  the  rivers V9  said  our  anxious  host- 
ess. 

Nothing,  even  risen  rivers,  we  felt,  could  be  very 
dreadful  on  such  a  day,  but  in  order  to  be  on  the 
safe  side,  we  engaged  Cipriano  Morales  for  two 
dollars  to  ride  ahead  of  us  on  horseback  and  pilot 
us  across  the  San  Mateo  ford,  seventeen  miles 
away,  which  would  be  the  worst  of  all.  If  we  could 
cross  that,  we  could  surely  cross  the  others.  So 
with  Cipriano  as  an  outrider,  spurs  jingling,  som- 
brero flapping,  and  saddle  strings  streaming  on  the 
breeze,  and  Gypsy  Johnson,  our  sorrel  mare,  tossing 
her  blond  mane  in  high  spirits,  we  drove  out  of 
Capistrano  in  some  style. 

The  road,  after  following  the  line  of  surf  for  a 
while,  turned  inland  and  upward  upon  a  great  mesa 

116 


SPRING  DAYS  IN  A  CARRIAGE 

with  a  glorious  view  of  emerald  hills  and  sparkling 
sea;  and  at  noon  after  the  dangerous  fords  had 
been  safely  crossed  and  we  made  our  midday  camp 
amid  wild  flowers  and  nodding  mustard  in  yellow 
bloom,  and  the  bacon  sizzled  cheerfully  in  the  pan, 
the  delight  of  life  overcame  me  and  I  launched  forth 
enthusiastically : 

"This  is  one  of  the  loveliest  places  on  earth.  I 
defy  Italy  to  show  anything  equal  to  this  superb 
view  of  green,  rounding  hills  and  blue  ocean  and 
bluer  sky.  Then  the  soft  touch  of  this  breeze,  and 
the  stimulus  of  this  heavenly  sunshine.  This  is 
something  like!  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  the 
world." 

To  each  statement  individually  and  to  all  collec- 
tively Sylvia  gave  joyous  assent,  checking  them  off 
with  the  fork  that  turned  the  bacon.  Then  with  a 
merry  twinkle  in  her  eyes,  she  observed  very  softly : 

"If  only  those  idiots  in  Santa  Barbara  who  sent 
us  on  this  carriage  trip — " 

IV.    RANCHO  SAN  FULANO 

"I  don't  see  why  in  the  name  of  common  sense," 
I  can  remember  saying  testily,  "no  Calif ornian  can 
give  you  directions  that  can  be  followed.  That  fel- 
low at  Capistrano  said  it  was  a  straight  road  and 
we  couldn't  possibly  get  off  it,  and  now  look  at 

lis!" 

All  the  sunny  afternoon  we  had  driven  cheerfully 

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UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

along  a  grassy  highway  that  wound  due  south  mile 
after  mile  across  a  great  cattle-ranch,  and  was  guar- 
anteed by  the  last  white  man  we  had  seen,  some 
fifteen  miles  back,  to  lead  without  fork  or  deviation 
to  Oceanside,  where  we  had  designed  to  pass  the 
night.  It  was  now  six  in  the  evening,  and  on  a 
lonely  mesa  bounded  on  one  side  by  the  distant  sea 
and  on  the  other  by  a  line  of  bare,  monotonous  hills 
without  sign  of  human  habitation  in  any  direction, 
we  found  ourselves  at  a  dividing  of  the  road,  where 
a  weather-worn  guide-post  stated  dimly  on  one  finger 
that  San  Diego  was  fifty-six  miles  distant,  while  the 
legend  upon  the  other  finger  was  illegible  entirely. 

We  anxiously  scanned  the  country  in  every  direc- 
tion for  sight  of  some  one  who  might  direct  us,  but 
in  vain.  It  was  exactly  the  situation  where  the  old- 
time  writer  of  romance  would  have  set  "a  solitary 
horseman"  jogging  along,  but  though  we  waited  for 
a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  for  one  to  turn  up,  none 
appeared.  The  sun  was  rapidly  descending  to  the 
horizon,  and  a  decision  could  no  longer  be  post- 
poned. The  speculative  possibilities  of  the  un- 
known seemed  preferable  to  the  certainty  of  fifty-six 
miles  to  San  Diego,  and  we  turned  our  tired  horse 
into  the  unmarked  fork  which  led  into  the  foothills. 
Our  hope  was  that  it  might  take  us  to  some  hamlet 
where  we  could  secure  a  lodging  for  the  night  and 
where  in  the  morning  we  might  be  started  right  for 
Oceanside. 

The  road,  after  ascending  gradually  through  the 

118 


SPEINO  DAYS  IN  A  CAKEIAGE 

chaparral  for  a  mile  or  so,  turned  sharply  around 
the  base  of  a  knoll  where  suddenly  there  opened  be- 
fore our  eyes  a  view  which  made  us  pinch  each  other 
to  assure  ourselves  that  we  were  not  in  a  dream. 
At  our  feet  stretched  a  long  green  valley  glorified 
with  the  last  warm  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  and  down 
its  length  of  emerald  meadow-lands  a  little  silver 
river  flowed,  with  red  cattle  feeding  on  the  banks 
or  standing  knee-deep  in  the  quiet  waters.  And  far 
away  at  the  upper  end  of  this  secluded  vale  there 
gleamed  in  the  sun  a  cluster  of  red  roofs  and  white 
walls,  like  some  castle  of  old  romance,  rising  from 
the  midst  of  tree-tops.  A  wonderful  stillness  was 
over  all,  and  of  humanity  there  was  no  sign.  The 
scene  seemed  more  a  pictured  page  from  an  ancient 
tale  than  a  bit  of  our  noisy,  practical  America,  and 
we  half  expected  to  see  at  any  minute  some  "gentle 
knight  pricking  across  the  plain, "  or  a  band  of 
squire-attended  damosels  on  dappled  palfreys  issu- 
ing from  the  castle  gates. 

But  at  any  rate,  if  the  romance  of  our  souls  was 
not  to  be  indulged,  here  was  surely  an  opportunity 
to  have  our  physical  requirements  for  the  night  sup- 
plied; and  so,  shaking  out  the  reins,  we  started 
Gypsy  Johnson  down  the  road  that  led  into  this  val- 
ley of  peace.  That  the  red  roofs  were  of  some  ham- 
let of  the  hills,  we  did  not  doubt ;  yet  it  was  a  most 
foreign-looking  village  for  the  United  States — even 
for  Southern  California. 

As  we  descended  to  the  floor  of  the  valley,  the  red 

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UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CAI VORNIA 

roofs  and  white  walls  became  lost  to  sight;  but  a 
road  led  in  their  direction,  and  we  took  it.  By  and 
by  we  came  to  a  gate  closed  across  the  road. 

"A  most  inhospitable  village, "  observed  Sylvia. 

Opening  the  gate,  we  passed  through,  and  shortly 
caught  the  gleam  of  white  again  through  an  envelop- 
ing olive  orchard.  The  bright  walls  were  now  seen 
to  be  of  one  building,  low  and  rambling,  its  roof  of 
old-fashioned  red  tiles.  There  were  vine-covered 
verandas  and  deep  cool  windows  about  which  roses 
climbed,  and  a  white-walled  garden  with  pomegran- 
ates and  olive  trees  and  grape  vines  visible  within. 
The  fragrance  of  honeysuckle  was  in  the  air,  and  a 
mocking-bird  hidden  somewhere  was  singing  its  ves- 
per song. 

A  short  distance  from  the  great  house  was  a  long 
adobe  barn,  also  glistening  white,  and  beyond  it  a 
row  of  laborers'  cottages  each  with  its  bit  of  garden 
in  front  and  rear.  A  Mexican  stableman  leading  a 
horse  gave  us  the  first  chance  we  had  in  twenty 
miles  to  ask  questions,  and  we  learned  that  our  sup- 
posititious village  was  no  village  at  all,  but  the 
Eancho  San  Fulano,  over  part  of  whose  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  acres  we  had  been  driving 
since  noon. 

So  the  problem  of  the  night's  lodging  was  still  un- 
solved, and  our  hearts  sank. 

4 'How  far  is  it  to  Oceanside?"  we  inquired. 

The  Mexican  scratched  his  head. 

"Quien  sabe?    Long  way." 

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SPEING  DAYS  IN  A  CAEEIAGE 

We  looked  at  Gypsy  Johnson,  whose  tired  head 
hung  low.  Perhaps  we  could  get  a  room  at  the 
ranch  overnight,  we  suggested — we  had  provisions 
enough  to  tide  us  over,  if  the  horse  could  be  cared 
for,  too. 

The  Mexican  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Quien  sabe,"  he  observed,  "you  have  to  see 
Meester  MacCleenchy  up  at  the  big  house,"  and  he 
nodded  his  head  towards  the  red-tiled  mansion. 

"Who  is  Mr.  MacClinchyT'  we  asked. 

"Meester  MacCleenchy,  he  own  these  ranch — he 
own  all  what  you  see, ' ' — with  a  comprehensive  wave 
of  his  hand  over  Southern  California — "Meester 
MacCleenchy — he  ver-r-ry  reech  gentleman. " 

We  then  dimly  remembered  having  once  been  told 
by  somebody  that  the  largest  existing  Spanish  ranch 
in  Southern  California  was  now  owned  by  an  Ameri- 
can, who  had  bought  it  from  the  heirs  of  the  original 
Spanish  owner — a  crony  of  the  last  of  the  Mexican 
governors  of  California.  Under  ordinary  circum- 
stances we  should  have  jumped  at  the  chance  of  see- 
ing so  interesting  a  survival  of  the  old  days  of  Span- 
ish dominion  in  California,  for  it  had  been  scrupu- 
lously kept  up  and  the  aristocratic  Old- World  look 
which  it  had  from  its  Spanish  architect,  had  been 
preserved  in  all  essential  particulars.  To  be  forced, 
however,  to  knock  at  its  gates  as  suppliants  for  a 
night's  lodging  was  not  exactly  the  ideal  condition 
of  visiting  it,  and  we  were  a  somewhat  nervous 
couple  as  we  drew  up  at  the  garden-wicket. 

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UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

I  made  fast  the  horse  to  a  post,  and,  leaving  Syl- 
via arranging  her  hair  and  removing  as  well  as  she 
might  the  more  evident  stains  of  travel  from  her 
dress,  I  walked  along  the  great  front  veranda,  past 
the  conventional  big  five-gallon  Mexican  olla  of 
drinking  water  swathed  in  its  damp  burlap,  and 
entered  an  open  door.  A  long  passageway  led 
through  the  house  to  an  inner  quadrangle  where 
trees  cast  their  shade  and  flowers  bloomed — the 
regulation  patio  of  Spanish  architecture — and  there 
an  olive-skinned  lady  with  dark  hair  and  a  rose 
caught  in  it,  directed  me  to  a  doorway  across  the 
courtyard  where,  she  said,  Mr.  MacClinchy  would 
be  found. 

There  he  was  found  standing  before  the  agreeable 
warmth  of  a  wood-fire  that  crackled  on  a  cavernous 
hearth  the  width. of  the  room's  end — a  stocky  gentle- 
man with  a  bald  head,  bushy  brows,  a  bristling  gray 
mustache,  and  a  ruddy  countenance  terminating  in 
a  square  jaw  that  betokened  small  liking  for  opposi- 
tion. He  frowned  fiercely  as  the  situation  was  ex- 
plained, and  as  soon  as  he  learned  there  was  a 
woman  in  the  case  he  cut  the  unfinished  narrative 
short  and  roared: 

"Bring  your  lady  in,  sir!" 

Then  striding  ahead  he  led  the  way  back  to  the 
carriage. 

"  Madam, "  he  said  with  a  bow,  and  a  tone  as 
gentle  as  Bottom's  when  that  versatile  character 
would  simulate  the  sucking  dove,  "let  me  assist  you 

122 


SPEING  DAYS  IN  A  CAEEIAGE 

to  alight.  My  house  is  yours.  Let  your  husband 
drive  the  team  to  the  barn,  the  men  will  care  for  it. 
Come  to  the  fire,  you  are  cold,  I  am  sure.  And  now 
tell  me,  how  did  you  happen  to  lose  your  road?" 

And  so  we  came  to  taste  the  proverbial  hospitality 
of  an  old-time  Spanish  ranch,  for  though  this  latter- 
day  host  of  San  Fulano  made  no  claim  to  Castilian 
blood,  the  tradition  of  Spanish-Californian  large- 
handedness  was  thoroughly  maintained  in  him. 
Strangers  as  we  were,  his  son's  room  was  vacated 
for  us,  and  we  were  given  seats  at  the  great  table 
in  the  dining-hall,  where  he  presided  like  a  mediaeval 
baron  over  a  dozen  or  more  guests — for  a  house- 
party  of  young  people  was  in  progress  at  the  time, 
the  olive-skinned  lady  of  the  dark  hair  and  the  rose 
evidently  being  the  chaperon. 

The  eatables  were  provided  on  a  scale  that  con- 
firmed the  media&val  atmosphere,  being  hearty  rather 
than  dainty,  and  bountiful  to  a  fault.  A  huge  plat- 
ter of  ribs  of  beef  newly  from  the  grassy  ranges 
which  we  had  that  afternoon  traversed,  a  couple  of 
side  platters  of  stewed  rabbit  shot  the  day  before 
by  some  Nimrod  of  the  party,  enormous  dishes  of 
white  potatoes  hot  from  the  kitchen  and  smoking  to 
the  raftered  ceiling,  chicken-tamales  and  enchiladas 
out  of  compliment  perhaps  to  the  guests  of  Spanish 
blood,  mounds  of  red  frijoles,  of  course — and  to 
crown  all,  endless  relays  of  steaming  batter  cakes. 
A  sad-eyed  Chinese  "boy"  in  chintz  blouse  and  pig- 
tail transported  the  dishes  at  lightning  speed  on  the 

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UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

palms  of  his  upturned  hands  from  the  kitchen  across 
the  patio,  and  when  not  otherwise  employed  circled 
about  the  table  with  monumental  pots  of  tea  and 
coffee,  serving  meanwhile  as  an  ever-ready  target 
for  vociferous  denunciation  from  the  master  of  the 
house,  when  the  latter  thought  he  detected  any  re- 
missness  of  service.  Indeed  to  see  that  the  bottom 
of  his  guest's  plate  never  showed  was  this  hospitable 
host's  great  delight,  and  especially  toward  the  ladies 
were  his  attentions  unrelaxing.  A  pretty  Spanish 
girl  who  sat  at  his  left,  pausing  in  her  meal,  was  dis- 
covered to  be  waiting  for  the  molasses  jug,  from 
which  one  of  the  young  men  opposite  to  her,  was 
helping  himself.  So  unknightly  an  action  as  to  keep 
a  lady  waiting  was  intolerable,  and  in  an  instant  a 
roar  sounded  down  the  table. 

"Pass  the  lady  the  syrup!  Are  you  all  a  pack  of 
ruffians?" 

"And  now,  my  dear,"  he  remarked  with  fatherly 
tenderness,  as  he  laid  back  the  lid  of  the  jug  for  her, 
"is  there  anything  else  I  can  help  you  to?" 

We  would  have  left  in  the  morning  before  break- 
fast, but  it  would  not  be  permitted,  and  so  the  sun 
was  well  up  in  the  heavens  when  our  little  mare, 
jaunty  and  fresh  after  her  night's  rest  and  good 
fare,  was  brought  to  the  garden  wicket  by  a  stable- 
man. 

Our  host  was  walking  up  and  down  the  veranda 
puffing  fiercely  at  a  cigar,  as  we  approached  to  bid 
him  good-bye.  It  was  an  awkward  moment,  for  we 

124 


SPEING  DAYS  IN  A  CAEEIAGE 

greatly  desired  to  pay  for  the  accommodation,  and 
we  stammered  out  something  to  that  effect. 

"Pay !"  he  shouted;  "pay?  Not  one  cent,  sir,  not 
one  cent;77  and  in  the  vigor  of  his  feeling  he  tossed 
his  half -smoked  cigar  quite  across  the  garden. 

"But  you  will  at  least  let  us  thank  you — "  began 
Sylvia,  when  he  gently  interrupted  her. 

"Madam,"  said  he,  "I  pray  you  do  not  mention 
so  small  a  matter.  I  wish  you  a  pleasant  journey." 

As  we  passed  out  the  gates,  we  paused  for  a  last 
look  at  the  kindly  old  place.  It  was  but  one  story, 
the  conventional  height  of  the  Spanish-California 
ranch-house,  and  the  adobe  walls  were  of  prison-like 
thickness  pierced  at  rather  distant  intervals  with 
small  iron-grated  windows,  recalling  the  wild  days  of 
old  when  every  ranch  had  to  be  a  fortress  as  well  as 
a  home.  The  shadows  of  the  trees  trembled  in  cool 
patches  across  the  white  expanse  of  wall  and  a  couple 
of  pigeons  were  cooing  on  the  ridge  of  the  red-tiled 
roof.  Through  an  open  door  we  could  see  the  olean- 
ders within  the  sunny  patio,  and  outlined  in  the 
doorway  stood  our  host  of  San  Fulano,  his  face 
grimly  smiling  while  one  of  the  pretty  Spanish  girls 
fastened  a  red  blossom  in  his  buttonhole.* 

V.     SAN  Luis  EEY,  GUAJOME  AND  PALA 

From  San  Fulano,  it  was  but  a  short  drive  into 
the  pretty  valley  of  the  San  Luis  Eey  river,  where 

*  The  true  names  of  this  ranch  and  its  host  are  not  given  by  the 
recipients  of  the  courtesies  so  graciously  extended. 

125 


UNDEE  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

on  a  little  sunny  knoll  in  the  midst  of  a  fertile  farm- 
ing country,  stands  another  Mission  associated  with 
"Ramona,"  the  Mission  San  Luis  Key.  This,  in  its 
heyday,  was  perhaps  the  largest  and  richest— tem- 
porally speaking — of  all  the  Southern  California 
religious  establishments  of  the  Franciscans,  and  it 
was  here  that  Alessandro's  father,  as  will  be  remem- 
bered, was  master  of  the  flocks  and  herds  and  leader 
of  the  choir.  While  much  of  the  Mission  building 
has  fallen  into  decay,  the  main  church-edifice,  with 
an  impressive  fagade  toned  by  time  to  mellow  colors, 
still  stands  a  worthy  monument  to  the  Christian 
zeal  and  architectural  good  taste  of  the  founders. 
Religious  services  are  regularly  held  here,  and 
across  the  road  is  a  Franciscan  college  for  the 
education  of  priests.  As  we  drove  up,  a  christening- 
party  of  Mexicans  was  shyly  entering  the  church- 
door  which  was  held  ajar  by  the  smiling,  brown- 
robed  padre.  Through  the  open  portal  the  sun  sent 
its  cheerful  beam  into  the  black  interior — an  obvious 
symbol  of  the  inward  brightness  which,  it  was  to  be 
hoped,  would  lighten  life's  shadows  for  the  little 
Christian. 

The  Mission  is  rich  in  picturesqueness  which  will 
amply  repay  the  artist,  the  photograph-taker  or  the 
dreamer,  for  many  days'  stay.  The  accommoda- 
tion for  the  visitor,  however,  is  exceedingly  meager, 
as  there  is  no  public  house  within  four  miles,  and 
there  remains  only  the  possibility  of  securing  a 
room  at  the  storekeeper's  or  with  some  obliging 

126 


In  its  heyday  San  Luis  Rey  was  one  of  the  most  important 
of  the  Missions 


SPEING  DAYS  IN  A  CABEIAGE 


Mexican.  We  tried  the  latter  plan  for  one  night, 
but  we  would  recommend  anyone  not  immune  to 
fleas  and  to  whom  frijoles  and  chili-sauce  have  lost 
their  charm,  to  lodge  at  Oceanside,  four  miles  dis- 
tant though  it  be. 

A  few  miles  from  San  Luis  Eey,  just  back  from 
the  Pala  road  which  we  took  after  leaving  the  Mis- 
sion, is  the  old  Spanish  rancho  of  Guajome — they 
pronounce  it  wdh-ho-may  and  it  means  "The  Place 
of  the  Frogs " — standing  cool  within  the  shadow  of 
great  cypresses.  Here  the  creator  of  Eamona  is  said 
to  have  spent  some  weeks  when  she  was  beginning  her 
novel,  absorbing  the  atmosphere  of  Spanish-Calif  or- 
nian  home  life  which  is  so  livingly  reproduced  in  the 
work.  Guajome  is  indeed  the  original  home  of 
Eamona  and  the  geography  of  the  novel  in  several 
particulars  is  intelligible  only  when  we  know  this. 
Owing  to  some  feeling  which  eventually  rose  between 
the  novelist  and  the  mistress  of  Guajome,  portions 
of  the  story  were  recast  to  conform  to  the  physical 
features  of  the  Camulos  estate.  Like  Camulos,  Gua- 
jome being  private  property  is  "no  thoroughfare" 
to  unintroduced  visitors,  though  to  any  traveler 
genuinely  interested  in  the  beauty  of  the  historic 
place,  the  kindly  host  will  doubtless  extend — as  he 
did  to  us —  the  proverbial  hospitality  of  the  Spanish- 
American  landed  proprietor. 

Built  four-square  about  a  central  patio  where  flow- 
ers bloom  and  cluster  around  a  quiet  fountain,  the 
adobe  walls  of  the  house  three  feet  thick  and  the 

127 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

roof  red-tiled,  Guajome  is  a  typical  Southern  Cali- 
fornia country  house  of  the  ancient  regime.  Set  be- 
side unfailing  waters  in  the  midst  of  fertile  acres,  it 
is  a  kingdom  in  itself ;  and  in  the  old  days,  after  the 
fashion  of  a  land  without  cities,  it  possessed  re- 
sources for  the  entire  support  of  the  resident  family 
and  the  numerous  following  of  servants  and  depend- 
ents. Herds  of  cattle,  horses  and  sheep  pastured 
on  the  ranch's  thousand  hills;  vineyards,  olive- 
orchards,  and  wheat-lands  rolled  their  tides  of  fruit- 
fulness  up  to  the  ranch-house  walls.  Among  the 
retainers  of  the  estate  were  artisans  of  many  sorts 
— carpenters,  and  blacksmiths,  harness-makers  and 
weavers;  there  were  those  under  the  Guajome  roof 
who  were  skilled  in  the  medicinal  value  of  herbs; 
and  for  the  cure  of  souls,  a  chapel  stood  by  the  en- 
trance to  the  main  house,  where  the  offices  of  the 
church  were  administered  from  time  to  time  when 
some  visitant  father  came.  A  thoroughly  feudal 
community  in  the  old  days  was  Guajome,  where  the 
master  required  that  every  night  the  gates  of  the 
main  court  upon  which  the  sleeping  apartments  of 
the  family  opened,  be  locked  securely  and  the  keys 
delivered  to  him  by  the  majordomo.  Any  luckless 
servant  found  within  the  enclosure  after  that,  was 
summarily  flogged. 

All  this  and  more  our  Spanish  host  told,  as  he 
strolled  with  us  over  the  place,  plucking  for  us  here 
a  sprig  of  rue  and  here  a  sweet  lemon  for  souvenirs 
of  the  visit.  Then  true  to  the  spirit  of  hospitality 

128 


SPRING  DAYS  IN  A  CARRIAGE 

which  in  the  period  of  Spanish  dominion  in  Califor- 
nia saw  that  no  stranger  departed  not  properly 
horsed  and  without  small  silver  in  his  purse,  he  ac- 
companied us  to  our  carriage,  looked  quietly  over 
the  harness  to  be  sure  that  no  flaw  was  in  it,  and  as 
he  handed  in  the  lines,  asked: 

"And  now  do  you  surely  know  your  way?" 
On  a  hillside  commanding  a  distant  view  of  the 
ranch,  where  sumacs  and  elders  make  a  shady 
bower,  we  pulled  up  by  the  road  for  luncheon,  taking 
Gypsy  Johnson  from  the  shafts  and  turning  her  out 
to  graze  in  a  knee-high  patch  of  juicy  grass.  Our 
canteen,  the  vade  mecum  of  every  California  trav- 
eler, supplied  us  water,  dry  sticks  that  lay  about 
were  sufficient  for  a  bit  of  camp-fire,  and  in  half  an 
hour  we  were  in  full  enjoyment  of  chops  and  stewed 
tomatoes  and  a  steaming  pot  of  tea.  An  ill-man- 
nered blue  jay  took  up  his  station  on  a  neighboring 
rock,  having  an  eye  to  some  of  our  leavings,  and  now 
and  then  scolded  us  roundly  for  being  so  slow  to 
move  on.  We  tossed  him  a  mutton-chop  bone, 
which  after  watching  suspiciously  for  a  moment  or 
two  he  cautiously  approached,  then  backed  off,  drew 
near  again,  and  finally  dashed  with  boldness  upon  it 
and  made  off  with  it,  no  doubt  thinking,  like  another 
Jack  Homer,  "What  a  brave  boy  am  I!" 

"Breakfast  in  sight  of  San  Luis  Rey ;  dinner  over- 
looking the  barley  fields  and  olive  yards  of  Gua- 
jome ;  supper,  I  suppose,  in  the  shadow  of  the  Pala 
bell  tower ;  why  go  to  Italy  when  there  are  sights  like 

129 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

this  and  such  days  as  these  within  the  borders  of 
our  ain  countree?"  exclaimed  Sylvia  rapturously,  as 
she  removed  the  teapot  from  the  fire  and  set  the 
tomatoes  on  to  heat. 

I  sat  silent,  gazing  in  placid  contentment  on  the 
green  hills  which  stretched  away  mile  upon  mile  in 
soft  undulations.  Then  I  could  not  help  saying: 

"Oh,  it's  all  right  for  people  to  go  to  Italy,  if 
they  want  to;  the  ones  I  find  fault  with  are  those 
who  come  out  here  and  never  get  out  of  sight  of  a 
hotel  from  the  time  they  register  at  the  hotel  in  San 
Diego  till  they  fee  the  last  lackey  at  the  one  in  San 
Francisco,  and  then  lay  claim  to  knowing  something 
about  California — they  haven't  seen  the  real  Cali- 
fornia at  all.' ' 

So,  pleasantly  congratulating  ourselves  on  being 
given  the  opportunity  to  see  something  of  which  the 
conventional  tourist  knows  nothing  and  cares  as 
little,  we  packed  up  and  set  out  for  Pala,  that  pictur- 
esque outpost  of  the  Church,  or  sub-Mission,  estab- 
lished nearly  a  century  ago  by  the  priests  of  San 
Luis  Key  for  the  gathering  in  of  the  Indians  of  the 
hill  country. 

Should  one  desire  to  linger  along  this  part  of  the 
road  where  the  little  river  San  Luis  Rey  bears  the 
traveler  company  the  whole  twenty  miles  from  Mis- 
sion San  Luis  Rey  to  Pala,  there  are  plain  but  com- 
fortable accommodations  to  be  had  over  night  at  a 
hamlet  called  Bonsall.  As  there  were  but  six  hours 
of  daylight  before  us  when  we  quenched  our  road- 

130 


SPRING  DAYS  IN  A  CARRIAGE 

side  fire  near  Guajome,  and  Sylvia  had  ambitious 
designs  to  paint  the  little  Mission  in  its  evening 
color,  we  pushed  on  without  stop,  and  just  as  the 
sun  neared  its  setting  we  entered  the  lovely  natural 
amphitheater  where  Pala  lies.  And  there  before  us, 
as  fair  in  its  way  as  Giotto's  campanile,  shone  the 
white  bell  tower  designed  so  long  ago  by  some  for- 
gotten artist  of  the  church.  The  old  church  build- 
ings, the  corridors  and  the  quadrangle  have  fallen 
badly  into  decay,  but  this  bell  tower  with  two  bells 
a-swing  from  wooden  beams  in  the  belfry  is  in  thor- 
ough preservation.  From  an  artist's  standpoint 
the  bell  tower  is  the  whole  of  Pala,  and  Sylvia  lost 
no  time  in  getting  out  her  paint-box  and  sketch- 
block  and  setting  to  work,  while  I  went  off  upon  a 
reconnaissance  of  the  country  with  a  view  to  the 
night's  lodgings. 

When  I  returned  after  half  an  hour's  absence,  I 
suppose  my  voice  betrayed  some  annoyance,  for  I 
felt  it,  as  I  told  my  troubles : 

"I  thought  we  could  get  accommodations  at  the 
store — those  know-it-alls  at  Santa  Barbara  said  we 
could ;  but  it  seems  they  are  going  to  transfer  a  new 
batch  of  Indians  to  this  reservation  from  Warner's 
Ranch.  There  has  been  a  lot  of  trouble  with  them 
about  it,  and  the  storekeeper  has  had  orders  from 
Washington  to  allow  no  strangers  to  remain  on  his 
premises  under  penalty  of  having  his  license  re- 
voked. So  he  referred  me  to  a  Senora  Somebody 
who  lives  just  outside  the  Government  Reservation, 

131 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

and  I  went  to  see  her,  but  as  well  as  I  could  make 
out  from  her  Spanish — these  Mexicans  talk  a  vil- 
lainous jargon — the  priest  from  down  below  is  due 
any  evening  on  his  parochial  rounds,  and  if  he 
should  arrive  to-night  and  find  that  room  preempted, 
she  thinks  there  would  be  a  loss  to  her  spiritual  wel- 
fare, as  he  always  puts  up  at  her  house.  She  passed 
me  across  the  road  to  a  Mexican  family,  and  we  can 
have  a  room  there  for  six-bits.  The  woman  of  the 
house  seems  all  right  but  the  place  is  only  a  shack, 
and  of  course  nobody  knows  how  many  fleas  board 
there." 

Sylvia  was  looking  at  the  bell  tower  through  a 
frame  of  fingers.  Was  ever  there  such  an  inde- 
scribable, unpaintable,  other-worldly  color  as  that 
which  glorified  it  in  the  mellow  twilight? 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  she  murmured  absently, 
"nothing  matters.  I  could  sleep  sitting  up  in  the 
buggy,  for  the  sake  of  dwelling  one  hour  in  the  midst 
of  such  beauty  as  this.  Besides,  the  color  would  be 
heavenly  at  sunrise.'7 

Northward  by  the  "Pala  grade,"  as  the  long,  steep 
climb  is  called  that  leads  up  from  the  Pala  valley  to 
the  mesa  country  around  Temecula,  Gypsy  Johnson 
pulled  us,  and  here  the  "Ramona"  student  needs  to 
divide  himself  in  many  sections  to  see  everything  at 
once,  for  this  place  of  tragic  memory  is  a  veritable 
"Ramona"  center.  At  the  village  itself  one  may 
see  the  store  that  is  called  Hartsel's  in  the  novel; 

132 


SPRING  DAYS  IN  A  CAEEIAGE 

some  distance  to  the  west  is  plainly  seen  the  canon 
out  of  which  Alessandro  and  Eamona  climbed  on  the 
eventful  night  of  their  visit  together  to  Temecula; 
and  far  away  to  the  east,  its  snowy  summit  that 
spring  day  of  pur  visit  floating  like  an  island  of 
dreamland  upon  the  unstable  vapors  of  earth,  San 
Jacinto  mountain  showed — San  Jacinto,  upon 
whose  demon-haunted  slope  Alessandro  met  his 
cruel  death.  There  are  Indians  there  still — Coahuil- 
las,  Luisenos  and  what  not — and  every  year  some 
excited  traveler  comes  away  from  that  country  with 
a  story  of  having  seen  the  original  Eamona,  an  an- 
cient crone  of  anywhere  from  a  hundred  upward; 
and  to  prove  it,  shows  her  photograph ;  all  of  which 
gets  into  the  paper  to  the  misguidance  of  the  public. 
As  Eamona  is  the  regular  feminine  form  of  Eamon, 
a  frequent  man's  name  in  Spanish,  no  doubt  there 
are  Eamonas  a-plenty  among  the  California  Indian 
women,  but  there  is  in  fact  no  reason  for  believing 
that  Mrs.  Jackson 's  heroine  had  other  existence  than 
in  the  fancy  of  the  novelist. 

San  Jacinto,  with  its  Indian  rancherias,  its  sum- 
mer camps,  its  shadowy  forests,  and  its  rugged 
peaks  lifting  the  climber  two  miles  above  the  level 
of  the  sea  and  affording  superb  outlooks  to  the  east 
over  the  deserts  of  California  and  Arizona  and  to 
the  westward  across  fertile  valleys  to  the  Pacific 
Ocean — this  is  a  trip  to  itself.  Eeluctantly  we  left 
it  far  off  to  our  right,  as  we  drove  along,  now 
through  barley  ranches,  now  across  green  pasture- 

133 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

lands  dotted  with  thousands  of  browsing  kine ;  now 
over  wide,  treeless  stretches,  sandy  and  rock-strewn 
but  carpeted  in  places  with  wild  grasses,  filaree,  and 
myriads  of  wild  flowers  of  such  beauty  and  abun- 
dance as  had  had  no  existence  for  us  previously 
except  in  dreams;  and  where  we  sometimes  would 
find  ourselves  slowly  threading  our  way  through  an 
enormous  band  of  bleating  sheep,  their  shepherd, 
canteen  on  back  and  staff  in  hand,  following  in  their 
dusty  wake,  while  an  anxious-eyed  dog  with  droop- 
ing tail  kept  watch  and  ward  over  stragglers. 

So  by  easy  stages  we  jogged  into  Riverside,  Red- 
lands  and  San  Bernardino,  and  then  straight  west- 
ward through  fifty  miles  of  orange  groves  and  vine- 
yards to  our  home  city  of  Pasadena. 

The  liveryman  was  airing  himself  at  his  door  as 
we  drove  along,  and  we  stopped  to  pass  the  time 
of  day  with  him.  His  practical  eye  rapidly  summed 
up  the  condition  of  the  team,  and  he  smiled  affably. 

"You  don't  seem  to  have  had  any  smashups," 
said  he,  "and  you  haven't  spavined  the  mare,  and 
you're  both  looking  right  brown  and  peart.  I 
reckon  you  had  a  real  good  time  in  the  country; 
now,  hadn't  you?" 

And  we  assured  him  we  certainly  had. 

VI.    THE  PEACTIOAL  SIDE  OF  IT 

A  chapter  may  be  added  as  to  the  practical  side 
of  such  a  trip  by  carriage  as  has  just  been  outlined. 

134 


SPRING  DAYS  IN  A  CARRIAGE 

We  were  gone  fourteen  days,  and  the  expense 
items  for  two  persons  and  one  horse,  were  as  fol- 
lows: 

Hire  of  one  horse  and  top  buggy  $2  per  day  $28.00 
Keep  of  horse,  average  75  cents  per  day  . .  10.50 
Cost  of  lodging  and  meals  at  hotels  and 

boarding  places  en  route  31.00 

Cost  of  provisions  carried  and  purchased  en 

route 11.00 

$80.50 
Making  an  average  expense  of  $6.00  per  day. 

It  will  be  found  advantageous  to  give  the  horse  a 
full  day's  rest  every  four  or  five  days,  though  if  the 
daily  travel  is  easy  the  Sunday  rest  will  be  all  that 
is  really  needful. 

Twenty-five  to  thirty  miles  a  day  for  a  single 
horse  on  a  fairly  good  country  road  is  an  average 
day's  travel  to  reckon  upon. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  nature  of  the  trip  described 
that  would  debar  two  ladies  from  undertaking  it 
alone,  provided  that  one  is  reasonably  familiar  with 
horseflesh  and  has  a  good  head  for  directions. 

It  is  well  to  have  in  the  carriage  a  monkey-wrench, 
a  hatchet,  a  hank  of  rope  and  a  few  yards  of  baling 
wire.  "California,"  remarked  one  of  our  rustic 
friends,- "would  have  fallen  to  pieces  long  ago,  if  it 
had  not  been  for  baling  wire. ' '  There  will  probably 
not  be  need  for  any  of  these,  but  if  one  requires  them 

135 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

at  all,  it  will  be  when  out  of  reach  of  human  assist- 
ance, and  then  they  will  be  needed  badly. 

It  is  always  best,  when  putting  up  the  horse  at  a 
stable  for  the  night,  to  stipulate  with  the  livery  man 
that  he  gives  the  animal  a  grain  feed,  also  that  he 
sees  to  the  greasing  of  the  axles. 

When  one  is  on  the  wing  and  must  cook  each  meal 
in  a  new  place,  it  is  of  the  utmost  importance  to  have 
all  supplies  and  utensils  in  complete  order.  We 
made  two  bags  of  turkey-red  calico,  material  that  is 
easily  washed.  In  one  of  these  were  stowed  two 
saucepans,  two  frying  pans,  the  coffee  pot  and  sev- 
eral tin  lids :  in  the  other,  enameled-ware  plates  and 
cups,  knives,  forks  and  spoons  in  a  cloth,  a  few  tin 
plates  and  small  dishes. 

All  these  things  should  be  packed  with  layers  of 
newspaper  between,  and  the  two  bundles  tightly  tied 
can  then  go  on  the  bottom  of  the  wagon.  In  a  chip 
basket,  store  such  provisions  as  will  carry  you  to  the 
next  stopping-place,  salt  and  pepper  in  shakers,  soap 
in  a  small  tin  box,  and  numerous  small  pieces  of 
linen,  muslin  or  cheese  cloth  for  use  as  dish  cloths 
and  tea-towels,  one  or  two  of  which  may  be  used  up 
at  each  stopping-place  and  left  behind,  since  wet 
rags  are  unpleasant  and  unprofitable  to  transport. 

In  the  bottom  of  the  wagon  also  stow  two  iron 
rings  fitted  to  tripods,  which  you  will  find  invaluable 
in  cooking  on  a  camp  fire,  particularly  in  desert 
country  where  logs  or  large  stones  are  not  available 
to  rest  your  utensils  upon  over  the  flame.  These 

136 


SPRING  DAYS  IN  A  CARRIAGE 

are  sold  at  all  first  class  campers'  supply 
stores. 

When  you  stop  for  a  roadside  dinner,  the  follow- 
ing mode  of  procedure  will  economize  time.  As 
soon  as  the  carriage  is  stopped,  unload  the  cooking- 
utensil  bags  (described  above)  and  start  a  fire,  lay- 
ing a  supply  of  wood  for  your  hand,  needful  to  keep 
the  fire  going.  Do  not  make  a  big  fire — a  small  fire 
of  glowing  coal  is  what  you  need.  Then  while  the 
needs  of  the  horse  or  horses  are  being  looked  after, 
set  the  water  on  the  fire  to  boil.  Next  prepare  the 
potatoes  and  open  what  canned  things  you  are  going 
to  use  at  the  meal.  Then  as  soon  as  the  water  is 
boiling,  start  first  upon  the  fire  whatever  will  con- 
sume the  longest  time  to  cook.  While  this  is  cook- 
ing, set  out  your  dishes,  cut  the  bread  and  make  the 
coffee  or  tea,  fry  the  bacon  or  whatever  other  dish  is 
to  be  cooked;  and  by  the  time  the  horses  have  been 
attended  to,  dinner  should  be  ready. 

Serve  everything  hot  from  the  pans  and  at  once 
set  some  water  on  the  fire  to  boil  while  you  eat,  that 
there  may  be  hot  water  for  washing  up  immediately 
after  dinner.  Then  when  the  horses  are  being 
hitched  to  the  carriage,  wash  everything  and  repack 
the  red  bags  ready  for  the  next  time. 

When  camp  is  of  a  more  protracted  kind,  as  for 
several  days,  or  even  over  one  night,  it  pays  to  make 
one  or  more  fire-places  of  stones.  Three  substantial 
stones,  each  with  a  fairly  smooth  top  and  one  fairly 
perpendicular  side  are  selected.  Two  are  set  paral- 

137 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

lei  to  each  other  with  the  perpendicular  sides  inward, 
and  just  far  enough  apart  to  allow  the  cooking  uten- 
sils to  rest  over  the  space,  and  the  third  is  set  at 
right  angles  across  the  back.  The  fire  is  built  be- 
tween the  stones.  It  is  important  that  the  space 
between  the  stones  be  arranged  so  that  the  coffee 
pot  or  other  utensils  rest  steadily  over  the  flame,  or 
they  are  sure  to  tip  over  at  some  critical  moment  and 
not  only  spill  their  contents  but  put  out  the  fire.  If 
your  stay  is  long  enough  to  warrant  it,  and  fuel  is 
plentiful,  you  might  as  well  have  the  luxury  of  two 
or  three  of  these  fire-places,  so  that  several  dishes 
may  be  cooked  at  once. 

Should  you  employ  a  driver  on  a  carriage  trip, 
your  livery  people  will  probably  say  that  the  man 
will  board  himself;  but  our  experience  has  been  that 
as  the  driver  is  more  or  less  busied  with  the  horses 
during  the  stops  for  meals,  and  therefore  has  little 
time  to  cook  on  his  own  behalf,  it  generally  proves 
more  expeditious  to  include  him  at  meals  with  your- 
selves. Besides,  in  the  democratic  West  it  does  not 
do  to  draw  social  distinctions  too  fine,  and  if  your 
driver  is  a  tolerably  decent  sort  of  fellow — and  you 
had  better  have  no  other  kind— it  will  contribute  de- 
cidedly to  the  pleasant  feeling  to  let  him  know  at 
the  outset  that  he  is  welcome  to  what  is  provided  for 
all.  Of  course,  if  he  has  a  liking  for  some  special 
thing — coffee,  for  instance,  when  none  of  the  rest  of 
the  party  drinks  coffee — it  would  be  in  order  for  him 
to  prepare  this  for  himself. 

138 


SPRING  DAYS  IN  A  CAREIAGE 

Moreover,  in  making  up  your  budget  of  supplies, 
besides  allowing  for  the  driver  it  is  well  to  provide 
some  margin  to  take  care  of  any  chance  visitors  that 
may  drop  into  your  camp  at  meal  times.  In  the  hos- 
pitable, thinly  settled  stretches  of  rural  California, 
where  every  door  is  open  to  the  stranger,  you  will 
want  to  be  equally  open-handed  to  white  or  Indian, 
who  may  stop  at  your  camp.  No  one  would  ever 
expect  you  to  cook  anything  extra  for  him,  but  a 
share  of  whatever  might  be  most  convenient — if  only 
crackers  and  tea — would,  if  cordially  and  heartily 
offered,  be  as  cordially  and  heartily  received. 


139 


THE  FRANCISCAN  MISSIONS 
I.    AFOOT  ON  THE  PADKES'  PATHWAY 

IT  is  the  fashion  nowadays  to  call  it  by  its  old  Span- 
ish name,  El  Camino  Real — the  King's  High- 
way— and  to  travel  it,  if  one  travels  it  at  all,  by  mo- 
tor-car, making  the  run  from  San  Diego  to  Los  An- 
geles between  a  late  breakfast  and  an  early  tea ;  then 
to  Santa  Barbara  in  another  day,  and  on  to  Paso 
Robles  the  third;  to  Monterey  the  fourth,  spending 
the  night  at  Del  Monte;  and  on  the  evening  of  the 
fifth,  yon  slip  leisurely  into  San  Francisco  to  a  bath 
and  a  comfortable  dinner.  Or  you  may  reverse  the 
procedure. 

To  one  with  a  taste  for  the  outdoors  and  the  ro- 
mance that  clings  to  Franciscan  Missions,  there  is  a 
great  delight  in  this  trip  of  six  hundred  miles  over 
roads  rich  in  sights  more  Old-Worldly  than  New, 
and  never  dull.  To  be  sure,  they  are  somewhat 
chequered  in  condition — sometimes  hub-deep  in 
sand,  again  sticky  with  mud,  oftener  reasonably  good, 
and  not  infrequently  like  park  boulevards ;  but  each 
day  of  the  five  is  novel  in  its  scenery.  To-day  you 
are  skirting  a  sunset  sea ;  to-morrow  threading  moun- 
tain canons ;  now  crossing  huge  ranches  dotted  with 

140 


be 


THE  FRANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

grazing  cattle  or  given  over  to  the  raising  of  beans 
and  sugar-beets  by  the  thousand  acres,  where  Hin- 
dus and  Japanese,  in  picturesque  toggery,  labor  in 
the  sun.  Here  you  skim  over  breezy  mesa-lands  un- 
der a  sky  like  Italy's,  with  no  evidence  of  humanity 
in  sight ;  and  then  you  descend  into  agricultural  val- 
leys where  the  presence  of  the  olive,  the  pomegran- 
ate, the  fig,  the  prune  and  the  orange,  and  the  adobe 
abodes  of  swart  Mexicans,  deepen  the  illusion 
that  this  is  not  the  United  States,  but  a  foreign 
land. 

Personally  I  prefer  walking,  the  way  of  the  heroic 
old  Franciscans  themselves,  who,  gowned  and 
girdled  and  with  umbrella  on  shoulder,  were  accus- 
tomed to  foot  it  when  they  stirred  abroad.  But 
since  the  shortness  of  life  prevents  most  of  us  who 
are  not  professional  pedestrians  from  often  under- 
taking six-hundred-mile  jaunts  on  foot,  I  find  it  ex- 
pedient to  do  my  Mission  pilgriming  in  sections,  cov- 
ering by  train  such  parts  of  the  intermediate 
stretches  as  suit  my  convenience.  So  is  needless 
fatigue  saved  and  the  sentiment  kept  of  pilgrimage 
to  the  hallowed  places  of  earth  in  becoming  humil- 
ity. 

In  point  of  fact,  the  precise  trails  the  Padres  fol- 
lowed from  Mission  to  Mission  are  now  largely  a 
matter  of  conjecture.  The  elements  and  the  chang- 
ing requirements  of  the  times  have  obliterated  them 
so  that  even  tradition  is  wanting  as  to  many  of  them. 

141 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

Nevertheless,  the  road  of  to-day  that  joins  all  the 
missions,  like  beads  on  a  string,  is  near  enough  the 
original  to  preserve  the  atmosphere  of  the  adven- 
ture, even  if  the  finical  student  of  things  as  they  ex- 
actly were,  mourns  its  divagations. 

Of  all  such  foot  excursions  I  like  most,  I  think,  the 
memory  of  the  one  to  the  ruined  Mission  San  An- 
tonio de  Padua,  in  Monterey  county.  If  one  drops 
off  the  train  at  the  dreary  little  town  of  Soledad,  and 
crosses  the  Salinas  River  by  a  crazy  bit  of  foot-bridge 
that  is  in  evidence  when  the  water  is  low,  one  may 
walk  in  the  very  foot-steps  of  Serra  and  Portola 
(California's  first  governor)  past  the  crumbling 
mud  walls  of  the  Mission  Nuestra  Senora  de  la  Sole- 
dad — Our  Lady  of  Solitude — up  the  Arroyo  Seco 
Canon  through  Reliz  Pass  into  the  seclusion  of  the 
lonely  Canada  de  los  Robles  where  is  what  remains 
of  the  San  Antonio  Mission.  In  silent  dignity  by  its 
little  river  it  stands  in  a  solitude  almost  as  profound 
as  on  that  summer  day  of  1771  when,  as  the  old 
chronicle  tells  us,  Padre  Junipero  Serra  and  his  com- 
panions arrived  there  from  Monterey,  and  swinging 
their  church  bells  from  the  branch  of  an  oak,  Serra 
satisfied  the  longing  of  his  apostolic  heart  by  ringing 
them  furiously  and  crying  at  the  top  of  his  voice  for 
all  the  Indian  gentiles  to  hear  who  might,  "Come, 
come,  come  to  Holy  Church:  come  to  receive  the 
faith  of  Jesus  Christ  I" 

That,  however,  is  more  than  one  day's  walk  for 
most  legs  and  through  a  mountainous  region  so 

142 


THE  FRANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

sparsely  settled  that  the  attempt  might  necessitate  a 
night  under  the  stars.  So,  sending  my  grip  ahead 
by  stage,  I  set  out  from  King  City  by  the  broad  high- 
way which  many  of  the  motorists  follow,  into  the 
foothills  of  the  Sierra  Santa  Lucia,  up  the  Jimlo 
grade  with  its  magnificent  outlooks,  and  down  into 
the  oak  glades  of  the  San  Antonio  river  basin, 
twenty  pleasant  miles  to  Jolon — they  pronounce  it 
Ho-lone' — where  is  the  nearest  public  house  to  the 
Mission. 

Thus  faring,  towards  evening,  I  fell  in  with  Frater 
Vagabundus.  Of  course,  that  was  not  his  name. 
He  volunteered  none  and  I  did  not  ask.  It  is  not  eti- 
quette to  inquire  names  in  the  rural  West,  where 
men  have  been  known  to  work  side  by  side  very  con- 
tentedly for  a  year  or  two,  knowing  one  another  only 
as  "Slim"  or  "Shorty."  Frater  Vagabundus  was 
a  stocky  man  of  middle  age  and  imperturbable  coun- 
tenance, with  a  stubby  red  beard  and  a  pipe  in  his 
mouth.  He  was  decently  enough  dressed,  as  a  work- 
ing-man might  be,  and  swung  over  his  left  shoulder 
by  a  broad  strap  was  a  roll  of  blankets.  In  one  hand 
he  carried  a  covered  lard-kettle  that  tinkled  with  a 
sound  as  of  tin  utensils  within.  He  was  a  type  of 
pedestrian  one  often  encounters  on  California  high- 
ways. They  may  be  seen  plodding  from  one  end  of 
the  State  to  the  other,  their  bed-rolls  upon  their 
backs,  ostensibly  in  quest  of  work,  but  probably  im- 
pelled mostly  by  the  rover's  taste  for  fresh  air  and 
a  change  of  scene.  Yet  they  seem  a  grade  above  the 

143 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

professional  hobo  of  comic  literature  and  the  police 
court.  As  we  were  bound  in  the  same  direction,  we 
dropped  into  step  and  chatted  a  bit  together.  He 
was  not  averse  to  speech,  but  his  words  came  slowly 
and  rustily,  as  if  little  used. 

11  Lots  of  mechanics  on  the  road  now,"  he  ob- 
served; " people  are  not  hiring  much." 

"And  you,"  said  I,  "what  is  your  trade?" 

"Oh,  I'm  just  a  common  laborer,"  he  replied  with 
unexpected  humility,  "but  I  pick  up  a  job  now  and 
then.  Even  if  it  doesn't  pay  any  money,  there's  a 
meal  of  wittles  in  it,  and  that's  worth  while.  Some 
of  the  boys  are  always  watching  to  beat  their  way 
on  the  cars ;  but,  says  I,  what  good  does  that  do  'em? 
They  can't  get  no  work  that  way.  Once  a  rancher 
hired  me  all  winter  to  do  chores  for  grub  and  lodg- 
ing— he  couldn't  afford  to  pay  out  money — and  the 
boys  said  I  was  a  fool.  But  I  guess  not.  I  had  rum- 
atism  in  my  legs  and  couldn't  walk  good,  and  the 
rest  done  me  good.  I've  been  up  in  Alameda 
County,  and  it  got  bum  there,  and  I  think  mebbe 
times  is  better  in  the  south,  so  me  and  another  fel- 
low we're  headin'  for  Los  Angeles.  I'm  looking  for 
him  now" — glancing  down  the  road  back  of  him — 
"he's  back  there  a  piece.  We  know  a  wacant  house, 
not  far  from  here,  where  we  can  sleep." 

"Oh,  it  don't  cost  much  to  live  on  the  road,"  he 
went  on,  "I  always  carry  a  loaf  of  bread  and  some 
coffee,  and  I've  rice  enough  now  to  last  a  week. 
Then  at  the  railroad  warehouses  they'll  almost  al- 

144 


THE  FEANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

ways  give  you  a  handful  of  beans,  and  I'm  here  to 
tell  you  beans  stays  by  you.  In  the  morning  I  have 
coffee  and  bread,  and  I  don't  need  nothin'  more  till 
along  about  five  o'clock  and  then  I  make  up  a  fire 
and  have  rice,  and  when  it's  dark  I  roll  up  in  my 
blankets  and  sleep  till  morning.  Sometimes  there's 
several  of  us  camps  together,  and  company's  cheer- 
ful." 

Here  a  little  trail  struck  off  from  the  road,  and  my 
companion  stepped  into  it. 

"Well,  I'm  leavin'  you  here,"  he  said,  "solong 
and  be  good." 

I  had  gone  but  a  few  rods  on  my  way,  ruminating 
upon  the  new  glimpse  into  life  my  vagabond  friend 
had  opened  up  to  me,  when  I  heard  a  scuffling  noise 
at  my  feet,  and  there,  caught  by  one  long  ear  in  the 
savage  barbs  of  a  wire  fence,  cowered  a  trembling 
jack-rabbit.  He  had  beaten  a  pathetic  little  pathway 
on  the  ground  in  his  frantic  efforts  to  get  free,  and 
his  bleeding  ear  was  half  torn  through,  but  enough 
remained  to  hold  him.  Frater  Vagabundus  was  still 
in  sight,  and  I  called  to  him  to  come. 

"Here's  your  supper,"  I  said. 

He  caught  up  a  billet  from  the  ground,  and  with  a 
blow,  released  poor  Jack  from  his  misery. 

"You  bet  that'll  make  a  fine  stew,"  he  chuckled, 
his  eyes  a-sparkle,  as  he  held  the  rabbit  up  by  its 
hind-legs. 

"I  like  to  take  photographs  as  I  travel,"  I  ven- 
tured; "would  you  mind  if  I  take  yours?" 

145 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

He  gave  a  scared  glance  at  the  camera  and  quickly 
averted  his  face. 

"No,  no,"  he  stammered,  backing  away,  "I — I'm 
not  dressed  good  enough." 

So  did  I  learn  that  Frater  Vagabundus  had  a  past, 
and  I  was  sorry. 

Jolon  is  a  quaint  mountain  hamlet,  old  as  things 
go  in  our  West,  and  of  a  look  unusual  in  California's 
villages — a  look  of  finished  snugness,  almost  Eng- 
lish, beneath  venerable  oaks.  There  are  a  couple  of 
roadside  taverns  with  roomy  verandas  and  balconies, 
a  store  or  two,  a  grimy  blacksmith  shop  beside  a 
spreading  tree,  and  in  winter  a  generous  bit  of 
green.  Of  the  two  inns,  Button's  picturesquely 
festooned  with  a  huge  grape-vine  that  dates  back  to 
the  Padres'  day,  would  probably  get  the  asterisk  of 
commendation  in  Baedeker,  if  either  would,  though 
at  "four  bits  for  beds  and  four  bits  for  meals," 
which  is  the  Dutton  tariff,  one  is  not  to  be  too  fas- 
tidious. Button's  is,  however,  the  real  thing  in  old- 
fashioned  rural  inns,  and,  after  a  comfortable  coun- 
try supper,  it  is  pleasant  to  sit  in  an  arm-chair  by 
the  huge  fireplace  in  the  bar  and  toast  your  toes, 
read  the  San  Francisco  morning  paper  and  listen  to 
the  talk  of  the  local  publicans  and  sinners.  Having 
attained  a  certain  age,  Jolon  has  lost  the  crudity  of 
the  typical  Wild  West  border  village ;  and  if  you  are 
looking  for  a  Bret  Harte  setting,  you  will  not  find  it 
there,  but  rather  something  more  like  the  atmos- 
phere of  "The  Rainbow"  in  George  Eliot's  tale  or 

146 


THE  FKANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

the  "Six  Jolly  Fellowship  Porters"  of  Dickens. 
There  is,  to  be  sure,  the  miner,  inseparable  from  the 
California  mountains,  but  he  of  Jolon  is  a  quiet,  be- 
nevolent-looking mountain  of  a  man,  tipping  the 
scales  at  320  pounds,  they  say,  in  a  shirt  neither  red 
nor  flannel,  and  who  plays  cribbage  every  night  with 
the  barber,  pegging  the  score  with  three-penny  nails. 
As  for  gambling,  when  there  is  any,  it  is  nothing 
more  reckless  than  "  pitch  pedro"  for  nickels,  in 
which  the  jovial  landlord,  six  feet  two  in  his  stock- 
ings and  Falstaffian  of  paunch,  likes  to  take  a  hand, 
and  loses  four  bits  or  so  with  an  equanimity  that 
enhances  his  popularity  with  his  partners  in  the 
game— Frank  who  clerks  in  the  store  and  Black  Bill, 
the  hostler,  for  Jolon  is  democratic.  A  sprinkling 
of  Spanish  "fellows"  from  the  mountain  ranches,  a 
Socialistic  blacksmith  with  radical  views  on  taxation, 
and  a  chance  traveler  or  two,  like  myself,  complete 
the  company,  who,  after  swapping  the  neighborhood 
news,  discussing  the  prospects  of  the  fishing  season 
and  settling  the  affairs  of  the  nation  at  large,  dis- 
perse soberly  at  nine  o'clock,  and  fifteen  minutes 
later,  Jolon  lies  slumbering. 

Lamps  were  still  burning  in  Jolon  kitchens 
when,  next  morning  in  the  nipping  dawn,  I  set  forth 
by  the  westward  road  that  leads  through  the  Milpi- 
tas  Eancho  to  the  Mission.  It  is  a  country  of  wild 
pasture-lands  and  of  scattered  oaks.  The  leafless 
branches  that  winter  morning  were  draped  in  gray, 
hanging  lichens  and  clotted  with  witches'  brooms  of 

147 


i 


THE  FEANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

building,  strengthening  the  walls  and  putting  on  a 
shingle  roof,  they  had  accomplished  little  when  the 
money  ran  out.  Once  a  year,  on  June  thirteenth, 
Saint  Anthony's  day,  a  priest  comes  to  hold  re- 
ligious service  in  the  church,  and  people  gather  from 
miles  around  to  attend  and  make  it  a  fiesta  day.  At 
other  times,  the  edifice  appears  to  be  reduced  to  a 
sanctuary  for  stray  tramps  and  birds.  In  the  empty 
sockets  high  under  the  roof,  where  dead-and-gone 
beams  once  rested,  mud  swallows  build  their  nests, 
and  as  I  walked  the  deserted  nave,  two  owls  of  the 
species  Calif ornians  graphically  call  " monkey- 
faced  "  flew  up  from  the  high  rafters  over  the  altar 
where  they  had  been  dreaming  out  the  day,  and 
flapped  blindly  about.  The  hand  of  irreverence  has 
indeed  been  laid  hard  on  San  Antonio.  Empty 
whiskey  bottles  were  scattered  that  day  about  the 
floor,  amid  the  slovenly  remains  of  a  tramp's  camp 
who  had  lately  helped  himself  to  free  lodging  there ; 
and  the  plastered  walls,  as  high  as  the  arm  of  man 
could  reach,  were  literally  covered  with  the  scratched 
and  scribbled  names  of  visitors.  More  cheerful  is 
what  remains  of  the  Padres'  garden  into  which  one 
steps  from  a  side-door  of  the  sacristy.  Here,  shut 
out  from  the  world,  in  the  blessed  sunshine,  with  a 
bee  or  two  for  company,  I  sat  on  a  bit  of  green  turf 
under  an  ancient  budding  pear  tree  and  ate  my 
luncheon  garnished  with  cress  from  the  little  brook 
that  flowed  back  of  the  Mission  into  the  San  Antonio 

149 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

river.  A  few  rose  bushes,  some  tamarisks  and  a 
blossoming  currant  or  two,  still  maintained  a  strug- 
gling existence  there,  though  the  hands  that  planted 
and  tended  them  were  long  since  dust. 

From  the  ranch-house  on  the  hill  a  mellow-voiced 
bell  sounded,  bidding  to  their  midday  meal  some 
half-breed  laborers  who  were  ploughing  in  the  fertile 
land  below  the  old  campo  santo  by  the  river — labor- 
ers whose  ancestors  had  bowed  their  heads  on  other 
noons  at  the  call  of  the  angelus  bell  from  the  Mission 
belfry.  As  its  tones  died  away,  I  looked  up  and  saw 
a  horseman  beyond  the  broken  wall.  He  was  an 
elderly  man,  lantern- jawed,  dark  of  visage  and  spare 
of  frame.  Dismounting  stiffly,  he  threw  the  reins 
over  his  horse's  head,  and  leaving  the  animal  to 
graze,  he  approached  and  saluted  me  with  the 
gravity  of  demeanor  that  characterizes  the  well-born 
Spaniard.  For  Spanish  he  proved  to  be,  as  he  in- 
formed me  by  and  by,  with  some  pride — a  grandson 
of  one  of  Portola's  corporals.  His  grandfather, 
when  he  left  the  service,  had  been  given  a  hundred 
gentle  cows,  a  hundred  dollars  and  a  grant  of  land 
which  had  remained  in  the  family  until  the  coming 
of  the  Americans,  who,  by  processes  peculiar  to  the 
time,  managed  to  oust  the  corporal's  descendants 
and  got  for  themselves  from  Washington  a  title  to 
his  King-given  acres. 

11  Melancholy  business,  this,"  said  my  visitor, 
slowly  inhaling  the  smoke  of  his  cigarette  and  look- 
ing through  half -closed  eyes  at  the  ruined  buildings. 

150 


THE  FEANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

"Fifty-three  years  ago,  when  I  came  to  this  region, 
although  that  was  twenty-five  years  after  the  con- 
fiscation of  the  Missions  nnder  the  Mexican  Secular- 
ization Act,  there  was  still  abundant  life  here.  The 
church  and  the  buildings  around  this  quadrangle 
were  then  in  very  good  repair,  and  families  lived  in 
them.  There  was  a  Spanish  curate  in  residence  and 
he  loved  the  Mission  and  the  old  ways.  I  knew  him 
well — he  died  in  1881.  He  was  a  real  father  to  the 
people — very  different  from  the  Irish  priests  who 
followed,  and  who  cared  nothing  for  the  old  order 
and  let  everything  go  to  rack  in  a  few  years.  And 
yet,  for  all  the  devastation  of  the  American  and 
Mexican  vandals,  who  have  robbed  the  place  of 
everything  movable,  as  rats  riddle  a  cheese,  nothing 
would  be  easier,  if  I  only  had  the  money  some  of  yon 
Americans  have  to  burn,  than  to  restore  the  main 
buildings  here  and  show  the  world  to-day  how  a 
typical  Mission  really  looked  a  century  ago ;  for  the 
foundations  of  the  principal  features  are  still  plain 
— the  church,  the  Indians'  houses,  the  shops,  the 
sleeping  quarters,  the  irrigation  works,  the  burying 
ground,  the  Fathers'  garden  here.  You  are  inter- 
ested in  such  things,  sir?  I  will  show  you  the  plan 
of  the  original  Mission." 

And  the  old  man,  his  eyes  sparkling  and  his  face 
alight,  drew  eagerly  with  a  stick  upon  the  ground 
this  rough  outline,  and  pointed  out  the  features  as 
I  have  marked  them. 


151 


(UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 


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Interior  Corridors 


eror  Corrdo 


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Indian  «* 
Quarters 


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ndian^'  Quarters 


Plan  of  Mission  San  Antonio  as  it  originally  stood.  It  represents 
the  general  plan  of  the  Franciscan  structures  in  California. 

"Ah,  the  old  days  of  Church  and  King,"  he  went 
on,  rolling  a  fresh  cigarette;  "that  was  a  life  worth 
while.  Now  we  live  in  a  fever  and  all  the  country 
is  under  the  goad  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  whip;  and 
pardon  me  sir,  everything  the  Anglo-Saxon  touches 
he  vulgarizes.  But  then  it  was  different.  The 
Church  hunted  souls,  not  dollars.  The  Indians  were 

152 


THE  FEANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

made  fit  for  heaven  and  were  taught  to  lead  lives 
of  usefulness  here;  the  genie  de  razon — the  white 
people — if  they  had  little  money,  had  abundance  of 
the  material  comforts  of  life,  a  full  larder  and 
horses  and  cattle  unnumbered,  and  they  were  rich, 
sir,  in  time,  good  manners  and  reverence  for 
Church  and  authority.  There  were  no  lawyers  in 
the  country,  and  a  man's  word  was  security  enough. 
In  those  days  the  Missions  were  the  only  inns,  and 
the  bill  was  nothing.  A  man  traveling  on  horseback 
could  reach  a  Mission  every  night.  He  would  be 
insulting  the  Father  if  he  did  not  stop,  and  he  was 
welcome  to  stay  as  long  as  he  liked,  with  a  good 
room  to  himself  and  a  seat  in  the  place  of  honor  at 
table.  On  leaving,  he  could  have  a  fresh  horse  if  he 
liked  and  a  guide  to  the  next  Mission. 

"And  now  I  want  to  say  about  the  Indians.  Can 
you  imagine  what  it  was  for  two  or  three  priests  and 
a  handful  of  soldiers  to  stop  at  a  spot  like  this  in  a 
pure  wilderness — not  a  civilized  soul  within  fifty  or 
a  hundred  miles — and  start  a  Mission  such  as  this 
was?  When  the  books  tell  you  that  this  establish- 
ment, for  instance,  dates  from  1771,  which  was  the 
time  of  its  foundation,  you  must  not  think  that  the 
walls  you  now  see  were  erected  in  that  year.  It  was 
many  years  before  such  buildings  could  be  erected ; 
for,  after  setting  up  a  wooden  cross  and  stringing  the 
church  bells  on  a  framework  by  a  temporary  brush- 
chapel,  and  invoking  the  blessing  of  God,  the  first  step 
was  to  make  workmen  out  of  untrained  savages, 

153 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

That,  sir,  takes  time,  and  more  time,  patience  and  the 
help  of  God.  Brick  and  tiles  had  to  be  made  on  the 
spot  from  the  earth  about  them;  suitable  trees  for 
timbers  had  to  be  cut  out  in  the  mountains — and  in 
some  cases  that  meant  transportation  on  the  backs  of 
Indians  over  trails  where  none  was  before;  lime  had 
to  be  made  from  shells  gathered  far  away  on  the  sea- 
shore. The  construction  from  this  raw  material  of 
these  edifices,  which  even  in  their  decay  awaken  ad- 
miration for  their  beauty,  went  on  at  the  same  time 
with  the  spiritual  instruction  of  the  Indians;  and 
when  finished,  each  establishment  was  both  a  Chris- 
tian temple,  and  a  beehive  of  temporal  industry. 
Under  the  direction  of  the  Fathers,  the  Indian  neo- 
phytes were  taught  blacksmithing  and  carpentry, 
brick-making  and  stone-cutting,  tailoring,  shoemak- 
ing  and  saddlery;  they  were  shown  how  to  prepare 
the  ground  and  raise  crops ;  to  dress  olive-yards  and 
vineyards;  to  herd  sheep  and  cattle;  to  be  millers 
and  butchers  and  bakers — in  short,  to  cover  at  each 
Mission  the  whole  round  of  activities  needful  to  sup- 
port a  community  modeled  on  lines  of  European  civi- 
lization. In  the  case  of  Indians  who  manifested 
artistic  sense,  care  was  taken  to  develop  it  and  turn 
it  to  use  in  the  adornment  of  the  church  walls,  in 
the  manufacture  of  metal  vessels  for  the  altar,  in 
wood  and  stone-carving,  in  lace-making,  and  in 
leather  work.  You  have  doubtless  seen  in  the  active 
Missions  of  to-day  relics  of  this  art-work,  as  inter- 
esting in  its  way  as  the  architecture.  Music  was 

154 


THE  FEANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

also  assiduously  taught,  and  the  making  of  some 
kinds  of  musical  instruments. 

"The  life  under  the  Padres  was,  of  course,  com- 
munistic and  strictly  regulated.  At  daybreak,  I 
have  heard  the  old  curate  say,  everyone  was  astir 
and  had  to  attend  early  mass;  then  came  a  frugal 
breakfast  of  atole,  a  soup  of  corn  or  ground  roast 
barley,  a  big  dipperf ul  to  each  person ;  then  the  men 
went  to  work  in  the  shops,  fields  or  orchards,  the 
girls,  in  charge  of  a  duenna,  to  their  sewing,  weav- 
ing or  grinding  and  the  young  children  to  school 
within  the  Mission.  At  noon,  the  angelus  sounded 
and  everybody  came  to  a  dinner  of  pozole,  a  kind  of 
porridge  in  which  meat  and  beans  or  peas  were  prin- 
cipal ingredients.  Two  hours  were  allowed  for  din- 
ner and  rest;  and  then  to  work  again  for  two  or 
three  hours.  At  five  o  'clock  all  were  rung  to  church 
again  for  an  hour 9s  religious  teaching,  instruction  in 
Spanish  and  hymn-singing.  Then  came  supper  of 
atole  and  the  evening  was  given  over  to  recreation — 
dancing,  music  and  games  in  this  patio  or  in  the 
kitchen.  All  the  food  was  supplied  from  the  Mis- 
sion's community  stock;  the  unmarried  received 
theirs  already  cooked,  but  the  married  ones  got  only 
the  raw  material  which  they  had  to  cook  themselves. 
When  a  young  man  wanted  to  marry,  he  told  the 
head  of  his  guild— all  the  laborers  were  classed  in 
guilds,  according  to  their  trade — and  that  man  told 
the  Mission  alcalde  or  judge;  then  the  alcalde  in- 
formed the  Padre,  who  would  call  the  young  couple 

155 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

before  him  and  talk  the  matter  over,  and  if  it  seemed 
a  right  match,  he  would  marry  them.  After  the 
marriage,  they  were  given  an  apartment  and  regular 
rations  of  uncooked  victuals.  And  that  was  Mission 
life. 

"Oh,  of  course,  there  was  rebellion  sometimes," 
the  old  man  continued  as  he  rose  to  go,  "that's  hu- 
man nature;  even  white  people  will  quarrel  with 
their  bread  and  butter;  but  generally  the  spanking 
of  the  ringleader  laid  across  the  Padre's  knee,  or  the 
locking  up  of  a  few  of  the  malcontents  in  the  stocks 
till  they  cooled  off,  was  all  that  was  needed  to  restore 
order.  Ah,  well,  it's  all  one  now.  Of  all  the  Indi- 
ans that  this  San  Antonio  Mission  brought  into  the 
bosom  of  the  Church — and  at  one  time,  there  were 
more  than  a  thousand  neophytes  on  its  rolls — all  are 
gone  except  a  solitary  family  who  are  tolerated  to 
live  a  few  miles  from  here  on  the  lands  of  this  ranch. 
After  the  secularization,  the  Indians  were  like  a 
sheep  without  a  shepherd  or  a  fold.  Gringo  whisky 
and  white  men's  diseases  carried  them  off  like  flies. 
The  Americans  regarded  them  merely  as  thieves  and 
vagrants,  with  no  more  rights  than  wild  animals, 
and  shot  them  as  they  shot  coyotes  if  they  insisted 
on  being  in  the  way.  Spain,  sir,  never  deprived  a 
Mission  Indian  of  land  to  live  on — it  was  reserved  to 
this  great  republic,  founded  on  the  common  freedom 
and  equality  of  all  men,  to  deny  him  ground  to  stand 
on.  And  so  ends  the  story.  I  hope  my  garrulity 
has  not  tired  you,  but  I  have  seen  much,  and  read 

156 


In  the  Campo  Santo  of  Santa  Barbara  Mission 


THE  FRANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

much,  and  my  tongue  cannot  always  be  silent. 
Adios,  sir." 

And  yet,  as  one  travels  the  Padres'  pathway  to- 
day, one  is  made  aware  that  theirs  is  not  all  an  ended 
story.  If  Indians  are  not,  there  are  in  the  land  un~ 
regenerate  white  folk  a-plenty,  and  many  a  Mission 
bell  still  calls  in  the  service  of  the  Cross.  The  Mis- 
sions that  are  still  in  use  are  mostly  in  charge  of  the 
secular  clergy,  but  at  two,  at  least,  San  Luis  Key 
and  Santa  Barbara,  the  brethren  of  the  Franciscan 
Order  in  their  brown  gowns  and  white  rope-girdles, 
maintain  their  old  community  life  in  a  restricted 
way. 

The  Mission  at  Santa  Barbara  is,  of  all  the  chain, 
perhaps  the  best  known  to  the  tourist,  and  in  a  way 
it  is  of  all  to-day  the  most  heartening,  because  of  its 
well-groomed  appearance  and  the  active,  cheerful 
life  that  is  going  on  under  its  roof  and  in  its  fields 
and  gardens,  where  the  bareheaded  brothers  in  the 
conventional  garb  of  their  order  come  and  go  con- 
tinually. A  college  for  the  education  of  novitiates 
is  maintained  close  by,  which  in  part  accounts  for 
the  air  of  active  routine  that  prevails.  Santa  Bar- 
bara was  the  last  of  the  Missions  in  which  Serra  was 
personally  concerned,  and  a  pathetic  interest  at- 
taches to  it  because  of  the  heartbreaking  delays  in 
starting  the  building  after  he  had  selected  the  site — 
delays  due  to  the  antagonism  of  the  Territorial  Gov- 
ernor Neve,  who  was  determined,  if  he  could,  to 
break  up  the  Mission.  And  so  Serra,  in  disappoint- 

157 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

ment,  died  without  seeing  the  first  stone  laid.  Two 
years  later,  in  1786,  building  was  at  last  begun.  A 
beautiful  adjunct  of  this  Mission  is  the  Padres'  gar- 
den with  its  variety  of  plants,  its  pleasant  shaded 
walks,  and  its  quiet  seclusion  promoting  meditation. 
To  the  woman  visitor  this  enclosure  is  a  tantalizing 
matter,  if  she  catches  a  glimpse  of  it  through  an 
open  door,  for  into  it  only  men  are  admitted.  "It 
seems,"  to  quote  the  words  of  an  urbane  Padre, 
"that  since  our  Mother  Eve  through  her  fatal  curi- 
osity brought  upon  her  daughters  the  curse  of  ex- 
pulsion from  Eden,  the  Franciscan  Order  does  not 
subject  any  other  woman  to  a  similar  temptation." 
The  ancient  cemetery,  however,  which  occupies  a 
quiet  corner  of  the  Mission  grounds  within  high, 
time-stained  walls,  is  garden  enough  to  satisfy  any 
reasonable  taste — a  lovely,  peaceful  campo  santo 
where  palm  and  cypress  cast  cool  shadows  and  flow- 
ers bloom  by  every  path. 

Then  there  is  San  Gabriel,  the  first  Mission  the 
tourist  sees  if  he  comes  to  California  by  the  Los 
Angeles  gateway. 

"These  Mission  was  found  in  1771  by  the  Fran- 
ciscan Fathers.  The  picture  at  the  left  of  these 
altar  is  Saint  Joseph,  these  other  is  Saint  Gabriel 
Archangel ;  these  picture  here-  is  the  Blessed  Virgin, 
very  old  by  Spanish  master.  These  wall  was  built 
by  Indians;  here  is  the  baptis'  font  which  eight 
thousand  Indians  were  baptise',  and  are  buried  all 
around  the  chorch." 

158 


THE  FRANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

It  is  the  voice  of  gentle  Father  Bot,  late  Padre  of 
San  Gabriel  but  now  gathered  to  his  everlasting 
rest.  Through  an  open  window  float  the  ecstatic 
notes  of  the  meadow-lark  and  the  fragrance  of  or- 
ange blossoms.  Although  it  is  March,  the  air  is  soft 
and  still,  and  a  pair  of  dark-faced  Latins  of  whom 
we  catch  a  glimpse  through  the  window,  have  found 
the  sun  very  hot  and  are  refreshing  themselves  by 
rolling  a  cigarette  apiece  in  the  checkered  shadow 
of  a  fig  tree  just  bursting  into  leaf.  No,  it  is  not 
Italy,  nor  Andalusia ;  but  one  of  the  newest,  richest 
and  most  progressive  of  the  United  States.  Clus- 
tered about  the  Mission  is  perhaps  the  quaintest  old- 
time  Mexican  village  now  to  be  found  in  California, 
with  picturesque  adobe  houses  shaded  by  old  trees 
and  smothered  often  in  clambering  roses,  with  gay 
little  gardens  gathered  about  them. 

"Yes,"  observed  mine  hostess  of  "The  Grape- 
vine" with  complacency,  "it's  a  pretty  spot.  I 
think  if  the  Lord  left  any  place  on  earth  for  Him- 
self to  return  to,  it  would  be  San  Gabriel." 

Five  or  six  years  ago  the  electric  railway  com- 
pany which  has  gridironed  with  its  tracks  all  the 
country  around  Los  Angeles,  put  in  a  branch  to  San 
Gabriel,  and  that  remains  the  principal  evidence  of 
American  enterprise  in  the  sleepy  little  place  to-day. 
Nothing  can  be  more  incongruous  than  the  big,  red, 
noisy  trolley  cars,  clanging  and  banging  every  half- 
hour  down  the  narrow  little  main  street,  and  dis- 
charging their  loads  of  curious  American  sightseers 

159 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

by  the  old  Padres'  garden  gate ;  and  if  you  are  sensi- 
tive about  such  matters,  you  will  do  well  to  let  the 
car  go  hang,  and  walk  to  the  village — a  mile  or  so — 
by  the  quiet  country-road  lined  with  eucalyptus,  that 
leads  down  to  San  Gabriel  from  El  Molino  Station 
on  the  Los  Angeles-Monrovia  line.  Only  so,  or  by 
carriage,  may  one,  entering  the  village,  enter  also 
into  the  Old  World  atmosphere  which  is  its  great 
charm. 

There  is  a  quaint  adobe  fonda  there,  with  eye-like 
windows  in  a  squat  roof  and  a  patio  hidden  from 
the  sky  by  an  immense,  spreading  grapevine.  It  is 
not  listed  among  the  tourist  hotels  of  the  Land  of 
Sunshine,  but  the  unconventional  traveler  with  a 
taste  for  life  that  smacks  of  the  soil,  will  find  it  an 
interesting  experience  to  take  a  room  there  for  a  day 
or  two,  and  mix  with  the  people.  Eeal  tamales, 
frijoles  and  chili  con  carne  are  to  be  had — not  the 
canned  products  of  a  Chicago  packing-house;  and, 
if  you  are  not  a  teetotaler,  there  are  wines,  sweet 
and  dry,  from  San  Gabriel  vineyards.  Of  an  after- 
noon, games  of  hand-ball  are  to  be  watched  in  open- 
air  courts,  the  score  shouted  in  Spanish ;  and  in  the 
dusky  evening  the  strumming  of  guitars  offsets  the 
unromantic  clamor  of  the  trolley  gong.  Then  there 
is  the  daily  possibility  of  a  Mexican  christening 
party  or  a  wedding  within  the  Mission  walls;  and 
always  thrice  a  day  the  angelus  sounds  from  the  bel- 
fry its  solemn  call  to  prayer.  For  the  Mission  San 
Gabriel,  while  a  professional  show-place  under  the 

160 


THE  FEANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

care  now  of  an  order  of  Spanish  priests,  who  have 
an  eye  to  income  and  charge  you  "two  bits"  apiece 
to  show  the  interior  of  the  building,  is  an  active  in- 
strumentality of  the  Church;  and  though  shorn  of 
the  temporal  wealth  which  in  common  with  all  the 
California  Missions  it  possessed  until  three-quarters 
of  a  century  ago,  it  is  still  a  center  of  religious  life 
having  a  spiritual  care  over  a  populous  parish  where 
English  is  as  a  foreign  language.* 


II.    IN  THE  SANTA  BAEBABA  BACK-COUNTRY 

"I've  lived  in  California  only  seven  years," 
said  I,  "and  I'm  still  a  bit  tender  in  places; 
so  tell  me  what  is  a  skinner?" 

"Why,  a  skinner,"  replied  the  Calif ornian  in  the 
red  bandanna  neckerchief — he  had  but  one  eye  and  it 
was  full  of  surprise  at  my  ignorance — "a  skinner  is 
a  man  that  skins  a  team.  Gosh,  I  supposed  anybody 
knowed  that. ' ' 

"You  mean,"  I  ventured,  "a  teamster,  as  some 
people  say?" 

"Sure,"  he  nodded;  "and  they'll  always  give  a 
foot  man  a  lift;  so  I  guess  you'll  have  no  trouble 

*The  story  of  the  Missions  has  been  cast  in  dramatic  form  by 
a  Los  Angeles  literary  man,  Mr.  John  S.  McGroarty,  and  under  the 
title  "The  Mission  Play"  was  staged  at  San  Gabriel  in  1912  in  a 
little  theater  especially  built  for  it  beneath  the  eucalyptus  across 
the  street  from  the  Mission.  It  is  purposed  to  make  the  play  a 
permanent  feature  of  San  Gabriel,  and  to  produce  it  annually  during 
the  winter  tourist  season. 

161 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

hoofing  it  in  the  country  back  there.  But  if  it  was 
me  that  was  going,  I'd  hire  me  a  pony  and  be  inde- 
pendent. ' ' 

That  anybody  should  undertake  a  jaunt  of  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  miles  or  so  on  foot  for  the  pleasure  of 
walking  was  unthinkable  by  the  conventional  West- 
ern mind ;  but  I  was  already  familiar  with  the  strong 
points  of  tripping  afoot,  and  the  lure  of  that  splen- 
did chain  of  mountains  back  of  Santa  Barbara,  with 
their  fame  of  sparkling  trout-streams  and  deer- 
haunted  trails  through  fragrant  chaparral  and 
primeval  woodlands,  their  patriarchal  ranchos  with 
Spanish  names  and  their  sequestered  valleys  where 
living  rivers  run,  was  strong  within  me.  To  motor 
there  seemed  out  of  key  with  such  a  land,  though 
thousands  do  it ;  and,  besides,  motoring  is  expensive. 
To  take  a  team  meant  responsibility  and  risk;  for, 
with  the  possibility  of  meeting  a  flying  automobile 
at  any  time  on  the  narrow  ledges  that  do  service  as 
roads  in  our  Western  mountains,  the  joy  of  driving 
in  such  regions  is  nowadays  far  from  an  unmixed 
one.  No,  for  me  "the  footpath  way,"  with  kodak 
over  my  shoulder,  a  pocketful  of  dried  figs,  and  free- 
dom from  care.  Yet  that  hint  about  the  pony  stuck 
pleasantly  in  my  thought.  Why  not  try  both  ways? 
I  would. 

If  you  look  at  a  map,  you  will  notice  that  the  north- 
ern boundary  of  what  is  called  Southern  California  is 
a  three-hundred-mile  line  of  lofty  mountains  stretch- 
ing west  from  the  Mojave  desert  to  the  Pacific  Ocean 

162 


THE  FEANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

at  Point  Conception.  This  long-drawn  huddle  of 
mountains  is  bisected  some  forty  miles  northwest  of 
Los  Angeles  by  the  San  Francisquito  Canon,  and 
from  this  point  a  hundred  miles  westward  is  a  maze 
of  mountain  country  which  forms  to  Santa  Barbara 
a  hinterland  of  great  beauty  and  interest.  Thanks 
to  the  State's  lively  interest  in  good  roads,  supple- 
mented by  the  United  States  Forestry  Service,  which 
is  interlacing  the  forest  reserves  with  a  system  of 
splendid  trails,  the  region  is  exceptionally  accessible 
to  travelers,  and  the  automobile  horn  is  now  a  com- 
monplace in  mountain  solitudes  that,  less  than  a  de- 
cade ago,  knew  no  more  civilized  sound  than  the 
whistle  of  quail  or  the  bark  of  the  coyote.  Public 
camps  and  good  roadside  hostelries  provide  abund- 
antly for  the  entertainment  of  visitors,  and  while  the 
distance  between  is  sometimes  a  matter  of  a  day's 
jaunt  for  the  pedestrian,  one  can  always  count  upon 
a  roof  and  a  hot  meal  each  night. 

The  prevailing  style  of  inn  is  on  the  cottage  plan ; 
that  is,  close  to  a  main  building  a  number  of  small 
cottages  are  clustered.  In  some  cases  there  is  one 
room  only,  though  oftener  these  cottages  contain 
several.  Here  guests  are  lodged,  meals  being  served 
in  a  general  dining-room  in  the  central  building. 
The  automobile  patronage  has  become  so  sure  a  fac- 
tor in  the  business  of  the  roadside  boniface  that  good 
service  can  now  be  maintained  where  formerly,  in  as 
wild  a  country  as  this,  only  the  simplest  provision 
could  be  risked  for  the  chance  traveler's  comfort. 

163 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  no  better  accommodation  is 
given,  even  in  well-groomed  England  with  its  famous 
rural  inns,  than  I  have  enjoyed  in  this  Santa  Bar- 
bara back-country. 

It  was  a  May  afternoon  when  I  made  acquaintance 
with  my  first  among  these  pleasant  hostelries,  which 
was  set  in  a  snug  little  spot  at  a  canon's  mouth. 
The  air,  as  I  walked  up  the  roadway  to  the  house, 
was  sweet  with  the  perfume  of  lemon  blossoms  from 
an  adjacent  grove  where  mocking-birds  were  sing- 
ing. The  main  building  was  shaded  by  enormous 
live-oaks,  and  its  outlying  cottages  were  embowered 
in  roses,  red  and  white  and  golden.  A  motor-car 
stood  under  a  wide-spreading  oak  before  the  steps ; 
two  ladies  in  riding-habits  were  preparing  to  mount 
their  horses  for  an  hour's  canter  before  dinner;  an 
old  gentleman  in  an  easy  chair  was  dozing  over  his 
paper.  Off  in  a  garden  nearby  I  could  see  a  maid 
gathering  lettuce.  Everything  about  the  place  be- 
spoke "homeyness"  and  comfort.  The  room  to 
which  I  was  shown  was  a  fair  counterpart  of  many 
that  I  have  occupied  in  England,  with  prettily  cur- 
tained windows,  snowy  sheets  and  pillows,  and  a  fire 
all  laid  for  the  lighting,  should  I  need  it.  And  a  few 
steps  off  in  a  room  at  the  end  of  the  veranda  was  a 
porcelain-lined  bathtub.  The  charge  for  lodging 
and  for  two  delicious  meals,  deftly  served  by  a  dark- 
haired,  ruddy-cheeked  granddaughter  of  Spain,  was 
two  dollars.  Ever  after  as  I  walked,  the  memory  of 
that  pleasant  cottage-inn  served  to  preserve  a  Chris- 

164 


THE  FRANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

tian  spirit  within  me  when  some  bouncing,  speeding 
car  honk-honked  me  into  the  ditch  and  smothered  me 
in  dust,  as  not  infrequently  happened.  "Were  it 
not  for  this  motoring  gentry,"  I  would  say  to  my- 
self, "such  inns  could  not  afford  to  be,  and  some  mil- 
lennial day,  mayhap,  our  lords  of  the  road  will  learn 
consideration  for  the  farer  afoot — who  knows  f " 

The  particular  gem  of  the  Santa  Barbara  back- 
country  is  the  Ojai  Valley.  The  road  to  it  is  of  fa- 
mous beauty,  following  the  sea  to  Carpinteria ;  then 
crossing  a  mountain  pass  of  exquisite  charm  to  the 
Ventura  Eiver,  and  beyond  threading  a  winding 
course  for  miles,  dappled  with  shadows  cast  by  over- 
arching boughs,  through  unbroken  woodlands  by  the 
side  of  a  musical  mountain  stream,  which,  if  you  are 
of  a  leisurely  turn,  you  may  whip  for  trout  as  you 
go,  and  catch  some.  The  valley  itself  is  a  rare  spot 
of  quiet  loveliness  of  small  area,  encompassed  with 
protecting  mountains  whose  chaparral-covered 
slopes  are  green  winter  and  summer.  The  Ojaians 
tell  you  that  the  queer  name  of  their  home  (you  are 
to  pronounce  it  0-high)  is  Indian  for  nest,  and  a  nest 
it  looks,  lapped  in  the  great  mountains.  Magnifi- 
cent oak  trees  everywhere  dot  the  valley  floor,  and 
the  one  village — Nordhoff,  named  in  honor  of  Cali- 
fornia's pioneer  eulogist — is  hidden  quite  by  these 
primeval  trees,  from  many  of  which  swing  streamers 
of  gray  lichen,  reminding  one  of  the  moss-draped 
live-oaks  of  the  Southern  Atlantic  seaboard.  Of 
all  California  villages,  Nordhoff  is  the  most  sylvan 

165 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

and  about  the  only  one  free  from  metropolitan  aspi- 
rations. Its  rusticity  is  its  fortune  and  it  knows  it. 
What  with  its  tree-embowered  inns,  its  shady  black- 
smith shop,  its  leafy  lanes  and  here  and  there  a  stone 
fence  and  bowlder-strewn  pasture,  it  has  about  it 
something  of  the  atmosphere  of  a  New  England  ham- 
let. It  is  a  mecca  for  tennis  players  who  for  seven- 
teen years  have  flocked  here  from  all  quarters  to  at- 
tend the  annual  spring  tournament  of  the  Ojai  Val- 
ley Tennis  Club  on  its  pretty  oak-fringed  courts. 

Here  and  there  among  the  oaks  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  village  and  for  a  mile  or  two  beyond,  are  many 
little  cottages  half-smothered  in  roses. 

"No,  they're  not  farm  houses, "  said  a  "skinner," 
hauling  oranges,  who  picked  me  up  on  the  road  one 
day,  "some  of  'em  are  just  sort  of  camps  for  tour- 
ists who  like  to  spend  the  winter  here  in  a  bully  cli- 
mate ;  and  some  of  'em  is  where  consumptive  fellows 
live.  The  hotels  won't  take  them;  so  they  rent  a 
place  to  themselves.  I  don't  know  as  it  often  cures 
'em,  but  they  live  longer  here.  Living  in  the  Ojai  is 
pretty  near  the  same  as  bein'  in  heaven,  anyhow,  I 
say,  and  when  you  die  it 's  just  a  step  across. '  * 

In  May,  after  the  winter  rains  are  over  and  the  be- 
ginning of  the  six  months'  dry  season  daily  lowers 
the  mountain  streams  to  fordable  proportions,  sum- 
mer camps  open  up  at  many  places  along  the  upper 
waters  of  the  Sespe  or  the  Matilija  or  the  Santa 
Ynez,  for  the  accommodation  of  anglers  and  other 
vacationers.  At  such  resorts,  a  couple  of  dollars  a  day 

166 


THE  FEANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

or  ten  per  week  will  pay  for  one's  keep  if  he  has 
stomach  for  a  plain,  though  in  the  main  wholesome 
table,  and  likes  his  lodging  beneath  a  roof.  Of 
course,  you  lack  here  the  genteel  attentions  of  the 
automobile  inns ;  the  waitress  startles  you  with  such 
blunt  queries  as,  "Are  you  going  to  have  steak  or 
chops V  and  "What '11  you  have  to  drink  1"  and  on 
Sunday  evenings  quite  naturally  turns  up  in  the  par- 
lor with  the  guests  to  listen  to  the  graphophone,  take 
a  hand  at  cards,  or  join  in  the  hymn  singing,  if 
there  is  any. 

Sauntering  over  these  open  mountains  through 
miles  upon  miles  of  chaparral — that  sun-scorched 
tangle  of  sumac  and  manzanita,  adenostoma,  islay 
and  wild  lilac,  rarely  above  a  man's  head  in  height 
— I  wondered  that  it  should  be  considered  worth  in- 
cluding in  the  Government's  forest  reserves,  as  it  is. 
A  keen-eyed,  rugged-faced  man,  whose  bronze  but- 
tons adorned  with  the  image  of  a  pine  tree  pro- 
claimed him  a  forest  ranger,  overtook  me  on  the  trail 
one  day  and  explained.  He  rode  one  horse  and  led 
another  bearing  tight-packed  cowhide  alforjas  and  a 
bundle  of  bedding,  and  did  not  mind  if  he  did  not  get 
home  for  a  month. 

"Of  course,  chaparral's  no  account  for  timber, " 
he  said,  "but  it  grows  so  thick  over  the  mountains, 
it  performs,  in  considerable  measure,  what  timber 
does  for  the  water  supply — it  conserves  the  mois- 
ture in  the  ground.  Then  again,  it  needs  to  be 
watched  against  fires ;  if  they  get  started  in  it  once, 

167 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

they  spread  like  the  dickens  and  run  into  the  good 
timber  in  the  canons  and  on  the  higher  mountains. 
You  see,  lots  of  this  chaparral  is  just  greasewood, 
and  somebody  going  along  throws  away  a  live  ciga- 
reet  end,  not  thinking,  in  summer  when  every- 
thing's as  dry  as  preaching  and  before  you  know 
it,  the  fat's  in  the  fire." 

The  valley  of  the  Santa  Ynez  River,  which  lies 
behind  the  same  Saint  Agnes 's  mountain  range 
that  backs  Santa  Barbara,  is  one  of  the  sort  of  re- 
gions becoming  fewer  every  year,  where  the  pictur- 
esque California  life  of  half  a  century  ago  still 
lingers.  The  ranches  there  are  no  forty-acre  af- 
fairs, but  mount  into  the  thousands — fifteen,  twenty, 
fifty  and  even  sixty  and  seventy  thousand.  Through 
one  of  them,  the  San  Marcos,  the  public  highway 
runs  for  twelve  miles  with  barred  gates  across  it 
where  it  enters  and  leaves  the  ranch.  The  railway 
touches  only  the  outer  skirt  of  this  great  valley 
given  over  to  hay  camps,  sheep  walks  and  cattle 
ranges.  Here  you  may  witness  sheep-shearing  as 
described  in  "Ramona"  and  watch  Spanish  vaguer os 
throwing  the  lariat,  as  their  powerful,  sure-footed 
horses — no  slabsided  cayuses  for  this  business- 
carry  them  at  a  breakneck  .pace  up  and  down  rocky 
hillsides  that  you  might  suppose  goats  would  think 
twice  about.  Or  you  may  drop  in  at  country  barbe- 
cues under  the  patriarchal  oaks  and  be  heartily  wel- 
come to  Gargantuan  steaks  broiled  over  the  coals 
and  unstinted  draughts  of  coffee  boiled  in  cauldrons. 

168 


THE  FRANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

Into  this  Santa  Ynez  country  there  are  three  en- 
trances from  the  south,  good  roads,  as  mountain 
roads  go,  through  passes  of  rare  beauty.  I  elected 
to  go  by  way  of  the  San  Marcos  and  return  by  the 
Gaviota,  and,  as  the  village  of  Santa  Ynez  is  forty 
miles  from  Santa  Barbara  and  no  surety  could  be 
given  me  that  any  roadside  house  was  open  as  early 
in  the  season  as  the  time  of  my  journeying,  I  un- 
wisely hired  a  pony  with  saddle-bags  to  transport 
me  and  my  handful  of  baggage.  He  was  guaran- 
teed gentle  as  a  kitten;  but  he  turned  out  to  be  a 
cantankerous,  opinionated  little  beast,  with  a  minc- 
ing amble  of  a  gait,  when  he  was  not  walking,  and 
an  unquenchable  desire  to  turn  around  in  the  road 
every  whipstitch  and  strike  out  for  home.  He  was 
as  much  trouble  to  me  as  Stevenson 's  Modestine 
or  John  Muir's  memorable  mule,  and  I  had  better 
never  have  taken  him;  for,  as  there  proved  to  be  a 
good  inn  in  commission  half-way  to  Santa  Ynez,  the 
trip  could  have  been  quite  comfortably  managed 
afoot. 

The  San  Marcos  road,  however,  with  its  glorious 
outlook  seaward  to  where  the  Channel  Islands  lie, 
and  inland  across  green  depths  of  canons  to  the 
misty  peaks  of  the  Santa  Ynez  Sierra,  and  bordered, 
as  the  way  was  that  pleasant  May  day,  with  wild 
blossoms  of  varied  hues  and  fragrance — pitcher  sage 
and  yucca  and  yellow  mimulus,  brodiaeas,  styrax 
bells  and  lupines  of  many  colors — the  San  Marcos 
road  is  of  such  rare  beauty  that  even  a  nostalgic 

169 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFOKNIA 

pony  cannot  quench  its  charm.  To  the  literary  stu- 
dent, moreover,  it  possesses  a  special  interest  in  that 
it  skirts  the  territory  so  luringly  described  in  the 
opening  chapter  of  that  entertaining  book  "The 
Mountains, "  by  the  Santa  Barbara  author,  Stewart 
Edward  White.  Wild  and  sparsely  inhabited  as  the 
country  is  through  which  the  highroad  winds  its  way 
to  the  pass,  there  to  plunge  down  into  the  pastoral 
land  by  the  river's  solitary  reaches,  it  is  a  well- 
traveled  thoroughfare  by  no  means  lacking  in  human 
interest.  I  do  not  know  to  what  extent  my  experi- 
ence with  it  may  have  been  exceptional;  but  the 
Canterbury  pilgrims  could  hardly  have  been  more 
picturesque  in  their  day  than  the  intermittent  tide 
of  travel  that  passed  within  my  ken.  There  was, 
for  instance,  the  dust-covered  automobile  puffing 
under  its  load  of  hilarious  week-enders,  bound  for 
the  upper  river  ostensibly  to  fish ;  and  there  was  the 
big  four-horse  ranch  team,  piled  high  with  miscel- 
laneous supplies,  including  a  couple  of  Chinese 
kitchen  "boys,"  tempted  for  a  season  from  the  fan- 
tan  and  chop-suey  of  some  city  Chinatown,  to  cook 
beans  for  cowmen  and  lay  by  money.  There  was 
the  itinerant  prospector  ensconced  in  an  indescrib- 
able canvas-covered  wreck  of  a  cart,  drawn  by  two 
scrawny  burros  with  newspaper  blinders,  the  sight 
of  which  frightened  my  bronco  into  standing  on  his 
hind  legs  and  all  but  backing  me  into  the  canon; 
and  there  was  the  deputy  sheriff  in  chaps  and  som- 
brero, escorting  back  to  their  rightful  owner  a 

170 


THE  FRANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

string  of  colts  sold  by  some  horse-thief  to  an 
"easy"  rancher.  There  were  families  in  camp 
wagons  on  journeys  from  one  end  of  the  State  to 
the  other,  staking  out  their  teams  in  fat,  wild  pas- 
tures every  night  and  themselves  sleeping  under 
the  shelter  of  hospitable  oaks;  there  were  rovers 
like  myself,  only  independent  of  horseflesh,  their 
beds  rolled  up  in  canvas  a-swing  at  their  backs; 
there  was  the  moving-picture  man,  traveling  with 
horse  and  buggy,  looking  for  taking  backgrounds 
for  picture-plays ;  and  there  was  the  girl  from  Wy- 
oming, en  route  a-horseback  to  New  York,  with  no 
other  company  than  a  revolver  and  a  wolfish  look- 
ing dog. 

By  this  same  pass,  they  will  tell  you,  the  trail  of 
the  old  Padres  ran  when  a  century  ago  they  walked 
between  Santa  Barbara  and  the  Mission  Santa 
Ynes,  which  still  lifts  its  cross  in  the  midst  of  the 
valley.  But  Padre  Alejandro  says  no,  not  by  San 
Marcos  did  they  travel,  but  by  another  further 
west,  the  Eefugio.  El  Paso  de  Nuestra  Senora  del 
Refugio  was  the  stately  Spanish  name— the  Pass  of 
our  Lady  of  Eefuge. 

Padre  Alejandro  is  the  present  resident  rector  at 
the  Mission  Santa  Ynes,  an  elderly  man  of  comfort- 
able rotundity  of  figure  and  known  the  countryside 
over.  If  he  seems  a  bit  short  with  you  at  first 
greeting  when  you  ring  the  visitor's  bell,  do  not 
think  he  means  it.  He  has  all  kinds  to  deal  with, 
and  must  needs  defend  his  dear  Mission  from  the 

171 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFOENIA 

vandals  who,  afoot  and  more  especially  in  automo- 
biles, are  forever  traveling  the  State  highway  that 
passes  the  gate,  and  who,  if  not  watched,  would 
steal  the  very  vessels  from  the  altar.  After  a  little, 
when  he  has  taken  your  measure  and  finds  you  not 
a  bad  sort,  you  will  catch  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  and 
the  flicker  of  a  kindly  smile  about  the  corner  of  his 
mouth,  for  he  loves  his  joke  and  his  heart  is  as  ten- 
der as  a  woman's.  Though  not  a  Franciscan,  Pa- 
dre Alejandro  keeps  alive  at  Santa  Ynes  the  best 
traditions  of  the  Order  for  hospitality  to  the  poor, 
and  no  hungry  wayfarer  is  ever  turned  away  un- 
fed. In  the  corridor  by  the  doorway,  is  a  little  deal 
stand  with  a  kitchen  chair  by  it — "the  poor  sinner's 
table"  the  Padre  calls  it — and  here  the  hoboes  who 
stop  for  a  bite  to  eat,  have  it  served  them  with  a 
kind  word  or  two  for  a  relish.  If  sick,  they  are 
taken  in  and  cared  for,  and  if  they  want  work  for 
their  board  and  lodging,  there  is  no  end  of  it  about 
the  Mission  to  employ  them  as  long  as  they  care  to 
stay  and  behave  themselves. 

Ten  years  ago  when  the  Padre  came  to  Santa 
Ynes,  he  found  it  a  ruin  except  the  church  part, 
which  though  sadly  out  of  repair,  he  could  make 
shift  to  hold  services  in.  A  slovenly  American 
family  occupied  the  few  dilapidated  living-rooms 
that  were  at  all  under  roof,  sharing  them  with 
chickens,  pigs  and  a  colony  of  snakes.  With  his 
own  hands  and  his  pretty  housekeeper  niece's,  he 
set  about  the  herculean  task  of  restoration — clear- 

172 


THE  FEANCISCAN  MISSIONS 

ing  away  the  rubbish,  making  adobes,  mixing  lime 
and  mortar,  sawing  and  hammering  and  painting 
and  all  the  rest.  Little  by  little,  with  outside  con- 
tributions, now  and  then,  that  enabled  him  to  pay 
for  hired  laborers,  he  patiently  went  on  until  to-day 
the  church  part  is  completely  restored  and  is  safe 
beneath  a  tight  tile  roof;  and  one  wing  of  the  con- 
vento,  the  part  that  includes  the  living  and  sleeping 
rooms  of  the  old  Padres  and  their  guests,  is  also 
finished. 

"Yes,"  the  Padre  will  tell  you,  tapping  his  snuff 
box,  as  you  sit  with  him  in  the  arched  corridor  with 
its  outlook  over  the  peaceful  valley,  "I  came  here 
with  eight  hundred  dollars,  and  in  the  ten  years  I 
have  spent  more  than  twenty  thousand  dollars;  but 
see  what  I  have  now — a  palace!  But  the  work  is 
not  done.  Do  you  know  what  I  would  do  if  I  were 
rich?  Over  there" — he  pointed  to  a  long,  low 
mound  of  crumbled  adobe  hardby,  overgrown  with 
wild  grasses — "is  the  foundation  of  the  Indian 
quarters  of  the  old  Padres'  day.  There  were 
eighty  rooms  all  told,  and  the  foundation  under  that 
adobe  is  as  solid  as  rock,  being  cement.  I'd  restore 
that  building  and  put  it  to  use  again,  make  it  a 
home  for  tramps  and  social  derelicts,  as  well  as  for 
the  waifs  that  public  institutions  of  charity  will  not 
accept,  and  give  'em  a  chance  to  pull  themselves 
together  and  try  again.  There's  some  wheat  in 
even  that  sort  of  chaff,  and  human  souls  are  worth 
the  endeavor." 

173 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

About  this  Mission  of  Santa  Ynes  there  is  a 
home-like  atmosphere  that  cannot  escape  you,  for 
the  niece  is  a  rare  housekeeper,  and  the  feminine 
touch  is  over  all.  The  south  corridor,  which  runs 
the  length  of  the  convento's  front,  and  which  is 
bright  with  sunshine  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  is 
less  a  cloistered  walk  than  an  outdoor  living-room, 
cheerful  with  potted  plants  and  fragrant  with  per- 
fumes from  the  strip  of  garden  along  the  front 
where  roses  and  wall-flowers,  stocks  and  poppies, 
lift  dear,  old-fashioned  faces  to  the  sky.  Through 
the  great  arches  is  an  unobstructed  view  up  the 
quiet,  pastoral  valley  and  across  the  river  to  the 
mountains  that  look  down  on  Santa  Barbara  where 
Santa  Barbara  looks  on  the  sea ;  and  in  all  Southern 
California  I  know  no  more  charming  spot  for  respite 
from  the  world's  cark  and  care  than  this  lovely  open 
corridor  of  Mission  Santa  Ynes. 


174 


WINTER  ON 
THE  ISLE  OF  SUMMER 

I.    UNEXPLOBED  CATALINA 

SANTA  CATALINA  ISLAND  of  worldwide 
fame,  fifty  miles  due  south  from  Los  Angeles 
and  thirty  miles  out  at  sea — an  American  Capri  set 
in  an  ocean  of  perpetual  summer,  and  possessing  a 
climate  quite  peculiar  to  itself — is  practically  an 
unexplored  country  save  to  a  very  few.  The  aver- 
age visitor  goes  there  to  refresh  his  tired  spirit  on 
its  delightful  little  beaches  with  their  lovely  out- 
look across  a  radiant  sea  to  the  dreamy  mainland 
mountains;  or  to  gaze  into  the  luminous  depths  of 
the  wonderful  submarine  gardens;  or  for  a  quiet 
game  of  golf  on  one  of  the  most  charming  winter 
links  in  the  world;  or  more  often  for  a  bout  with 
those  famous  game  fish  of  the  Catalina  waters,  such 
as  the  leaping  tuna,  the  yellow-tail,  and  that  levia- 
than of  the  rod  and  reel,  the  jew-fish. 

Like  all  the  rest  of  the  resorts  within  the  tourist 
zone  of  California,  however,  Catalina,  while  she 
sets  before  the  transient  visitor  a  feast  of  attrac- 
tions easily  attainable  and  admirable  to  talk  about 
when  he  shall  have  returned  home,  holds  in  reserve 
for  her  intimates  her  deeper  and  finer  native 

175 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

charms.  To  know  the  real  heart  of  Catalina  one 
must  turn  to  the  hills  which  compass  Avalon  about. 
From  their  rugged  sides  and  crests  a  new  world 
opens  to  the  view. 

For  the  exploration  of  unexplored  Catalina,  the 
winter  months  are  the  best.  Then  the  hills  are 
clothed  in  fresh  vestments  of  green  and  call  you  to 
come  to  them;  the  skies  are  the  skies  of  Italy;  and 
the  stimulating  sunshine  invites  to  outdoor  en- 
deavor. 

It  is  a  breath-taxing  climb,  the  ascent  from  the 
beach  to  the  ridges,  but  you  are  helped  by  the  paths 
worn  by  the  clambering  feet  of  bands  of  sheep  with 
which  the  interior  of  the  island  is  so  over-run  that 
their  trails  along  the  ridges  make  a  practically  con- 
tinuous by-way  for  the  pedestrian  throughout  the 
whole  of  the  island's  twenty-two  miles  of  length. 
Up,  up,  you  go,  zigzagging  this  way  and  that,  puff- 
ing and  blowing,  the  summit  always  retreating. 
By  and  by,  you  sit  down  to  rest  and  draw  draughts 
of  refreshment  into  your  tired  lungs.  There,  far 
down,  are  the  golf  links,  the  club  house  like  a  toy 
and  the  golfers  like  pigmies  creeping  along  the 
ground.  Barely  you  discern  the  swing  of  a  stick, 
and  quite  a  perceptible  time  afterward,  the  sharp 
crack  of  the  smitten  ball  reaches  to  your  silent 
height.  There  a  little  further  on  is  the  medley  of 
Avalon  roofs,  and  there  pouring  from  the  wharf 
where  the  steamer  from  the  mainland  has  just  tied 

176 


WINTER  ON  THE  ISLE  OF  SUMMEE 

up,  a  black  wave  of  tourists  spreads  over  the  beach. 
The  horns  of  the  crescent  bay,  however,  hide  much 
of  the  sea's  expanse,  and  you  rise  and  struggle  up- 
ward again  for  a  wider  outlook. 

You  pass  the  head  of  a  side  canon  or  two,  the 
summit  is  just  beyond  you  at  last,  and  with  one 
final  desperate  charge  you  gain  it — only  to  find  that 
there  is  another  above  it!  Nevertheless,  the  brow 
of  the  hill  just  ascended  shuts  Avalon  completely 
from  view  and  you  are  across  the  confines  of  Cata- 
lina's  other  world.  From  the  hillsides  about  comes 
the  intermittent  bleating  of  sheep,  the  lambs  in 
a  frightened  treble,  the  mothers  in  a  reassuring, 
dignified  contralto.  A  black,  glossy  raven  alights 
on  the  ground  a  few  rods  off,  and  satisfied  by  your 
stillness  and  immobility  that  you  are  harmless, 
wags  his  head  slowly  from  side  to  side  and  indulges 
in  a  low,  melodious  ditty  so  different  from  the  harsh 
croak  that  he  addresses  to  the  rest  of  the  world, 
that  you  feel  yourself  of  the  elect.  Wild  doves  are 
cooing  and  a  valley  quail  makes  you  the  target  of 
his  railing  whistle.  "You  fool — you,  you  fool — 
you,"  he  says  as  plainly  as  his  eastern  cousin  says 
"Bob  White."  On  every  side  the  monotonous 
monosyllabic  squeak  of  ground  squirrels  pipes  up; 
Mollie  Cottontail  looks  in  on  you  quite  unexpect- 
edly to  herself,  and  scurries  away  in  terror;  you 
may  even  catch  a  distant  view  of  a  little  gray  fox 
slipping  along  the  hills. 

177 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

But  it  is  a  long  lane  that  has  no  turning,  and 
finally  you  do  reach  a  ridge  beyond  which  there  is 
no  other — only  illimitable  views  of  the  real  Pacific, 
for  at  Avalon  it  is  but  a  channel  that  one  sees. 
Off  there  to  the  southward  the  island  of  San  Clem- 
ente  humps  his  big  bulk;  far  to  the  west  lies  little 
San  Nicolas,  and  if  the  atmosphere  is  clear,  the 
Channel  Islands  off  Santa  Barbara,  a  hundred 
miles  away,  show  in  the  dim  northwest.  Santa 
Catalina  herself  stretches  away  from  your  feet  to 
the  north  and  the  west  in  a  succession  of  canons 
and  ranges  and  mountain  peaks — you  would  call 
them  so  "back  East,"  though  the  highest  is  only 
about  twenty-five  hundred  feet  above  the  sea. 

In  these  upper  regions  one  may  begin  to  realize 
something  of  the  beauty  of  the  midwinter  plant  life 
of  Catalina.  While  there  are  few  native  trees  of 
large  or  even  medium  size,  there  are  low-growing 
sorts  enough  to  make  quite  a  forest  showing,  such 
as  the  picturesque  dwarf  oaks  that  flourish  in  ever- 
green groves  both  on  the  inland  hillsides  and  along 
certain  of  the  slopes  that  overhang  the  sea. 

What  pictures  await  the  rambler  amid  these  up- 
land sunlit  thickets  of  oak,  where  the  foot  of  the 
regulation  tourist  never  treads!  Silver  ferns  and 
maidenhair  nestle  amid  the  green  grasses  about  the 
shaded  bases  of  the  tree  trunks;  and  looking  down 
oceanward,  where  the  gulls  are  querulously  crying, 
there  may  be  seen  through  the  interstices  of  the 
gray,  twisting  branches  of  the  little  trees,  exquisite 

178 


WINTER  ON  THE  ISLE  OF  SUMMER 

vistas,  as  through  windows  framing  the  sapphire  of 
the  sea.  The  air  is  faintly  fragrant  with  the  flow- 
ers resembling  apple  blossoms  which  are  the  bloom 
of  the  crossosoma,  a  small,  gray-barked  tree,  pale 
of  leaf,  twisted  and  twiggy,  clinging  to  the  rockiest, 
barrenest  of  soil,  unsociably  holding  itself  aloof 
from  its  fellows.  Rotund  clumps  of  bushy  sumac 
with  glossy,  oily  leaves  that  will  pop  into  a  flame 
like  fire-crackers  if  you  touch  a  match  to  them,  are 
thickly  dotted  with  their  small  pink  and  white 
bloom,  where  in  surpassing  content  the  bees  sip  and 
hum.  Along  these  hillsides,  too,  are  glorious  speci- 
mens of  the  so-called  California  holly  or  toyon,  the 
rich  green  foliage  alight  with  the  red  glow  of  its 
clustered  winter  berries.  A  yellow-berried  variety 
is  occasionally  found,  and  the  possibility  of  collect- 
ing this  rarity  gives  a  special  zest  to  a  winter  day's 
outing  in  these  unbeaten  paths. 

Sometimes  as  you  top  a  hill  there  opens  upon 
your  view  a  distant  slope  that  is  sheeted  in  white 
or  pale  lilac,  and  hurrying  towards  the  unfamiliar 
vision,  you  find  it  to  be  a  grove  of  ceanothus,  com- 
monly called  wild  lilac  in  California— little  trees 
about  the  size  of  the  eastern  dogwood,  bearing  in 
late  winter  feathery  clusters  of  tiny  flowers,  with 
a  bitterish,  tonic  fragrance.  These  treelings  have 
great  tenacity  of  life,  and  even  when  half  dead  the 
live  half  will  still  perform  its  winter  duty  of  bloom- 
ing. Some  specimens  that  we  found  one  February 
day  on  a  promontory  looking  westward  upon  the 

179 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

Pacific  were  dead  to  the  extreme  top,  where  on  one 
last  live  twig  a  few  blossoms  had  opened,  seem- 
ing like  the  soul  of  the  expiring  tree  poising  for 
flight  into  the  heavens. 

In  the  moist,  shady  canons  and  on  the  grassy 
slopes  facing  the  north  are  many  charming  wild 
flowers,  which  begin  to  open  as  early  as  January, 
reaching  their  climax  of  bloom  in  April  or  May — 
yellow-starred  baeria,  in  patches  upon  the  ground 
like  golden  rugs;  scarlet-mouthed  beard-tongue, 
clambering  over  bushes;  nemophilas,  with  pearly 
chalices,  cousins  to  the  baby-blue-eyes  of  the  main- 
land; orange  coils  of  fiddlehead,  and  twinkling 
wild  pop-corn  flowers  in  white.  But  of  all  the  floral 
beauty  of  the  island,  nothing  is  capable  of  giving 
greater  pleasure  than  the  wild  cactus  gardens  of 
the  inland  hills.  The  sheep  that  have  had  the  run 
of  the  interior  of  the  island  for  a  generation,  would 
long  ago  have  cropped  it  flowerless,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  prickly  pear  cactus,  which,  growing  luxuri- 
antly on  the  sunny  slopes  has  been  as  a  nursing 
mother  to  multitudes  of  wild  flowers  that  have 
gathered  under  its  spiny  skirts  for  protection  from 
the  marauding  browsers.  The  great  slab-like  arms 
of  a  cactus  clump  stretch  and  sprawl  about  upon 
the  ground  in  a  way  that  makes  a  very  effective 
hedge,  and  within  their  beneficent  sphere  of  influ- 
ence such  a  tangle  of  lovely  wildings  grows  and 
flourishes  as  is  worth  a  long  climb  to  see.  Here  are 
misty  clouds  of  galium  and  flaming  spikes  of  Indian 

180 


The  pier  and  the  glass  bottomed  boats  at  Avalon 


Crescent   beach   and   Avalon,   with   its   glorious   bay 


WINTER  ON  THE  ISLE  OF  SUMMEE 

paint  brush,  wild  four-o  'clocks,  magenta-hued,  lav- 
ender-cupped phacelias,  and  the  white  trumpets  of 
native  morning  glories;  here  the  cheerful  suns  of 
the  plebeian  yellow  ox-eye  blaze  by  the  side  of  the 
delicate  Catalina  mariposa  tulips.  Blue  brodiaeas 
and  bluer  nightshades  are  here,  vetches  in  varying 
shades  of  purple  and  in  white,  velvety-leaved  ho- 
sackias  with  clustered  blooms  of  orange  and  yellow, 
and  the  mingled  fragrances  of  the  stately  white 
sage,  threadleaved  artemisia,  and  everlasting. 
Even  a  few  ferns  and  patches  of  moss-like  selagi- 
nella  snuggle  beneath  the  shadows  of  the  great 
cactus  wings  where  some  moisture  lingers  after 
the  more  exposed  earth  is  baked  hard  as  a 
brick. 

As  for  the  cactuses  themselves,  the  edges  of  their 
flat  stems  are  glorified  in  February  and  March  with 
crumpled  pinkish  buds  that  expand  into  broad  flow- 
ers of  limpid  yellow.  Later  they  are  fringed  with 
rows  of  fruit  and  resemble  Pipes  of  Pan.  These 
fruits  of  the  slab- jointed  tuna  or  prickly-pear  cac- 
tus are  very  pleasant  to  the  taste  when  at  the  proper 
stage  of  ripeness— a  condition  which  may  be  known 
by  the  rich  purple  color  and  the  loosened  hold  of 
the  fruit  upon  the  stem,  causing  it  to  be  easily  de- 
tached. Because  of  the  bundles  of  minute  prickles 
which  dot  the  fruit,  it  needs  to  be  plucked  with 
a  gloved  hand.  Then  slice  the  square  end  off,  and 
squeeze  the  pulpy  interior  into  your  mouth. 
Though  seedy,  it  possesses  a  pleasant  flavor,  sub- 

181 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

acid  and  cool,  and  is  evidently  nutritious  to  the 
ravens,  quails  and  Mexicans  that  make  of  it  a  staple 
item  of  diet. 

There  is  but  one  wagon  road  on  Catalina  that 
penetrates  into  the  interior  of  the  island,  so  that 
the  exploration  of  the  inland  hills  can  be  done  thor- 
oughly only  on  foot.  The  network  of  sheep  trails, 
however,  making  of  every  ridge  an  aerial  highway 
and  connecting  one  ridge  with  another  throughout 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  island,  brings  the  re- 
motest points  within  comparatively  easy  reach  of 
good  walkers  who  find  Catalina  a  pedestrian's  para- 
dise. Even  those  whose  limit  is  quickly  reached  in 
a  walk  at  home  find  that  the  island  air  renders  trips 
entirely  possible  of  a  length  that  was  undreamed 
of  before.  We  know  of  one  lady  who  finds  a  half- 
mile  walk  in  the  East  quite  a  burdensome  undertak- 
ing, but  who  one  spring  day  climbed  to  the  summit 
of  the  range  east  of  Avalon  and  walked  ten  miles 
by  easy  stages  with  entire  enjoyment  along  the 
ridges  overlooking  the  sea,  returning  by  way  of  one 
of  the  canons,  without  especial  fatigue. 

Among  the  all  day  trips  afoot  from  Avalon,  one 
that  will  prove  of  more  than  ordinary  interest  is 
to  Silver  Canon  on  the  western  side  of  the  island — 
about  ten  or  twelve  miles,  there  and  back — afford- 
ing some  superb  views  of  the  open  Pacific,  and 
chances  to  get  a  glimpse  of  wild  goats.  This  trip 
may  be  accomplished  by  strong  walkers  in  a  half 
day,  but  unless  one  is  pressed  for  time,  it  is  well 

182 


WINTEE  ON  THE  ISLE  OF  SUMMER 

to  take  a  day,  giving  time  for  frequent  stops  to  en- 
joy the  views. 

To  Black  Jack  (one  of  the  two  highest  peaks  of 
the  island)  and  back,  about  fifteen  miles,  is  another 
delightful  jaunt,  introducing  the  pedestrian  to  the 
scenery  of  Catalina's  heart,  as  well  as  affording 
from  the  summit  of  the  peak  a  magnificent  all- 
around  ocean  view.  From  Black  Jack  the  walk  may 
be  extended  some  four  miles  further  to  Empire 
Landing  where  are  the  serpentine  quarries,  once 
worked  by  the  original  Indian  inhabitants  of  the 
island  for  the  manufacture  of  stone  cooking  pots. 
The  marks  of  their  primitive  cutting  are  still  seen 
upon  the  outcroppings.  There  selecting  some 
handy  spot  upon  the  bowlder— a  knob  or  jutting  cor- 
ner would  be  preferred — the  red  craftsman  would 
fashion  it  into  the  outside  of  a  pot.  When  properly 
shaped  thus,  the  pot  was  severed  from  the  rock  and 
the  interior  then  chiseled  out.  At  the  time  of  our 
last  visit,  some  of  the  half-finished  pots  were  still 
undetached  from  the  rock,  just  as  their  sculptors 
had  left  them  when,  nearly  a  century  ago,  they 
abandoned  their  old  home.  In  event  of  continuing 
the  Black  Jack  trip  to  Empire  Landing,  provision 
should  be  made  in  advance  either  to  camp  at  the 
Landing  overnight,  or  to  have  a  boat  call  and  take 
you  back  to  Avalon  the  same  day. 

On  another  day  you  may  have  the  Moonstone 
Beach  boat  drop  you  in  the  morning  at  Swain's 
Landing,  and  walk  to  the  head  of  the  canon  out 

183 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

upon  the  stage  road  and  so  back  to  Avalon.  The 
walk  is  approximately  six  or  seven  miles,  but  it  is 
a  stiff  climb  out  of  the  canon.  A  feature  of  this 
canon  is  the  presence  in  it  of  several  small  groves 
of  the  ironwood  (Lyonoihamus  floribundus)  a  rare 
tree  found  nowhere  in  the  world  but  on  Catalina 
and  one  or  two  of  its  neighbor  islands.  Should  your 
visit  be  as  late  as  May  or  June,  you  would  be  treated 
to  the  novelty  of  seeing  it  in  bloom. 

Owing  to  the  scarcity  of  springs  on  Catalina, 
water  must  be  carried  in  a  canteen,  on  any  all-day 
outing;  and  before  starting  on  a  lengthy  trip,  the 
outlines  of  the  island's  geography  should  be  firmly 
fixed  in  mind,  for  once  out  of  Avalon,  there  is  prac- 
tically no  chance  of  a  lost  rambler's  meeting  any 
one  to  put  him  on  his  road  again.  If  one  has  a 
reasonably  good  head  for  direction,  there  is  little 
likelihood,  however,  of  getting  badly  lost  in  the 
island  unless  one  should  be  caught  in  a  fog,  which 
sometimes  shuts  in  suddenly  in  the  winter  season. 
Then  the  only  safe  course  is  to  stop  and  wait  until 
it  lifts. 

The  fisher  folk  around  Avalon  will  be  found  to  be 
a  kindly  people,  willing  as  a  rule  to  impart  all  in- 
formation they  can,  and  like  all  whose  vocation 
leads  them  into  familiar  contact  with  the  life  of  the 
sea,  they  have  many  things  picturesque  and  won- 
derful to  tell  about  it.  But  of  the  land  side — the 
unexplored  side— of  Catalina,  we  found  few  to  tell 
us  anything,  until  we  made  the  acquaintance  of 

184 


WINTER  ON  THE  ISLE  OF  SUMMER 

John  of  the  chicken  ranch,  whose  shack  and  corrals 
are  a  mile  up  the  beautiful  canon  back  of  the  golf 
links.  A  small,  gray,  shaggy-bearded  man  is  John, 
with  twinkling  blue  eyes  and  a  heart  that  has  a  kind 
thought  for  all  the  world  except  the  red-throated 
linnets  that  flock  persistently  about  his  garden: 
"The  thieving  little  devils, "  he  says,  "they  never 
know  when  they  have  enough,  and  destroy  every- 
thing a  body  raises  I" 

After  a  career  of  wandering  by  sea  and  land  this 
Ulysses  of  the  West  happened  upon  Catalina 
twenty-odd  years  ago  and  has  been  there  ever  since. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  he  had  a  surfeit  of  the  sea, 
out  of  which  nearly  every  other  permanent  resident 
of  the  island  was  seeking  to  make  a  living,  or  per- 
haps it  was  because  in  a  community  of  fishermen 
and  boatmen,  poultry-raising  was  a  calling  without 
competitors,  that  John  embarked  in  the  business. 
However  that  may  be,  it  proved  a  thriving  enter- 
prise, and  dwelling  in  the  lap  of  the  hills  John  has 
managed  to  pick  up  about  all  that  anybody  knows 
of  the  island's  land  side.  From  him  we  learned 
the  shortest  cut  to  Silver  Canon,  and  where  was  the 
nearest  point  to  see  the  sun  set  in  the  Pacific;  he 
initiated  us  into  the  mystery  of  a  cooling  drink, 
made  from  the  sticky,  red,  acid  berries  of  a  bush 
which  he  called  "shumake";  instructed  us  in  what 
island  plants  made  the  best  "greens,"  and  how  to 
recognize  under  its  protean  forms  that  "abomi- 
nable shrub  or  weed"  as  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

185 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

called  the  California  poison-oak.  And  it  was  John, 
who  with  a  shovel  one  day  disclosed  to  us  the  enor- 
mous proportions — it  would  be  a  fat  man  indeed 
whose  body  was  as  big — of  the  root  of  the  chilicothe 
vine  or  "big-root,"  that  clambers  riotously  over  all 
the  thickets  of  the  island  and  adorns  them  with  its 
clustered  white  bloom,  its  bristling  seed-pods  the 
size  of  goose  eggs  resembling  little  porcupines 
swinging  by  their  tails. 

We  first  heard  of  John  when  we  were  keeping 
house  in  a  tiny  three-roomed  cottage  at  the  top  of 
an  Avalon  street  so  steep  that  we  suspect  it  must 
have  been  built  up  in  the  interests  of  the  butchers 
and  the  bakers,  the  climbing  gave  us  such  an  appe- 
tite! The  most  robust  appetite  palls  on  monotony, 
and  after  we  had  exhausted  the  variety  of  the  Ava- 
lon provision  shops  two  or  three  times  over,  our 
tastes  demanded  chicken.  We  looked  and  inquired 
for  chicken  at  all  the  shops,  but  in  vain.  There 
were  steaks  guaranteed  to  melt  in  the  mouth,  mut- 
ton chops  fresh  off  the  range,  legs  of  lamb,  and  pigs ' 
feet  and  tamales  if  we  would,  but  never  a  chicken. 
Then  we  learned  that  John  was  the  poultry  mo- 
nopolist of  the  island.  So  one  sunny  afternoon  we 
went  in  quest  of  him. 

The  road  up  John's  beautiful  canon  makes  one  of 
the  pleasantest  short  walks  out  of  Avalon,  winding, 
after  it  leaves  the  golf  links,  by  a  gentle  ascent 
among  rolling  hills,  their  sides  dotted  with  clumps 
of  dwarf  oaks  and  wild  lilac,  blossoming  elders  and 

186 


WINTER  ON  THE  ISLE  OF  SUMMER 

red-berried  holly  and  thickets  starred  with  wild 
flowers  and  musical  with  the  song  of  birds.  As  the 
road  rises,  it  gives  us,  as  we  stop  now  and  then  to 
look  back,  exquisite  glimpses  of  the  blue  sea  and  far 
away  the  snow-capped  mountains  of  the  mainland 
rising  dreamily  above  the  fog  banks  of  the  mainland 
shore.  By  and  by  a  turn  in  the  road  shuts  all  that 
from  view,  and  a  nearby  cock-a-doodle-doo  betokens 
the  poultry  ranch  at  hand. 

The  sight  of  John's  chickens,  his  waddling  ducks 
and  strutting  turkeys  resplendent  of  feather,  and 
the  clouds  of  cooing  pigeons  presented  an  embar- 
rassment of  riches  that  rather  staggered  us.  Here 
were  possibilities  beyond  our  wildest  hopes— broil- 
ers, friers,  roasters,  squabs — surely  we  must  invite 
company  to  our  feast.  John,  ambling  about  with  a 
bucket  of  chopped  alfalfa,  caught  sight  of  us  and 
came  forward  to  greet  us  with  a  slow  and  gentle 
speech  and  a  smile  that  with  difficulty  disengaged 
itself  from  his  tangle  of  whiskers.  Why,  yes,  he 
had  a  purty  nice  lot  of  chickens;  they  hadn't  ought 
to  be  anything  but  nice  with  the  green  stuff  he  giv' 
'em — chopped  alfalfa  and  such,  and  wheat  ground 
up  tasty  in  the  coffee  mill.  Yes,  he  reckoned  they 
was  some  friers  among  'em,  but  not  quite  big 
enough  to  sell,  not  just  yet.  That  fat  old  hen  for 
stewing?  Well,  no-o  he  didn't  think  'twould  be 
right  to  let  her  go,  not  just  now;  you  see,  she's  a 
purty  good  layer  yet,  and  eggs  is  eggs,  these  days. 
Them  ducks?  Well  no-o,  he  wasn't  selling  ducks, 

187 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

not  just  now;  he  was  figurin'  on  getting  a  bunch  of 
them  together  before  parting  with  them.  Them 
turkeys,  there,  he  had  rather  thought  of  killing  a 
couple  at  Christmas,  but  somehow  it  didn't  get 
done,  and  it  was  a  question  if  they'd  be  good  eating 
just  now. 

This  was  indeed  discouraging.  It  seemed  ridicu- 
lous that  in  a  land  fairly  flowing  with  chickens,  we 
should  be  thus  baffled.  We  sat  down  on  a  log  and 
while  John  proceeded  to  shower  his  pets  with 
chopped  alfalfa,  we  held  a  council  of  war.  Being 
human,  John  must  have  his  price,  but  it  was  evi- 
dently not  the  price  of  a  chicken  or  two ;  something 
rarer  than  money  must  be  had  to  reach  him.  We 
looked  at  his  shabby  little  cabin  void  of  human  com- 
panionship, and  it  occurred  to  us  that  as  John  was 
"batching  it"  and  had  batched  it  for  twenty-odd 
years,  his  stomach  was  probably  his  vulnerable 
point.  We  were  housekeeping  and  it  was  within  the 
possibilities  of  our  gasoline  stove  to  turn  out  a 
pudding.  Might  it  not  be  that  a  pudding— we  arose 
and  renewed  the  attack. 

"John,"  said  Sylvia,  "we  want  a  nice  stewing 
chicken.  If  you  can  sell  us  one,  we  will  pay  you 
your  own  price  for  it,  and  make  you  a  pudding." 

John's  mouth  gave  a  twitch  or  two.  The  arrow 
had  hit  the  mark.  He  stood  uneasily  first  on  one 
leg  and  then  on  another,  took  a  hasty  look  at  his 
clucking  family,  shut  his  eyes  and  surrendered. 
The  chicken  would  be  ours  at  two  o'clock  to-morrow. 

188 


WINTER  ON  THE  ISLE  OF  SUMMEE 

We  shall  probably  never  forget  that  chicken.  It 
was  a  big,  fat  dowager  of  a  hen,  and  we  cooked  it 
and  cooked  it  and  cooked  it.  We  began  after  break- 
fast and  let  it  stew  till  dinner  time.  We  stayed  in 
during  the  afternoon  and  unceasingly  let  it  simmer. 
The  process  was  renewed  after  supper  and  kept  up 
until  bed-time.  The  veteran  bird  holding  her  own, 
we  ordered  a  fresh  can  of  gasoline  next  morning, 
and  continued  the  treatment.  At  the  expiration  of 
nine  hours  of  stewing,  all  told,  the  hen  was  still 
holding  well  together,  but  we  were  exhausted  with 
hope  deferred  and  served  her  up.  We  ate  the  ten- 
derest  parts  at  that  sitting,  and  cooked  the  rest 
in  instalments  off  and  on  for  the  balance  of  the 
week. 

"John,"  I  remarked,  when  we  called  on  him 
again,  "the  ranch  isn't  what  it  was  before  the  hen 
left,  is  it?  An  old  familiar  sight  gone  out  of  your 
life,  eh?  You  must  miss  her  sadly." 

John's  eyes  twinkled. 

"Wasn't  she  a  good  tastin'  bird?"  he  inquired. 

"She  tasted  well  enough,"  we  admitted,  "but  she 
seemed  a  little  old.  She'd  been  on  the  place  some 
time,  hadn't  she?" 

"No-o,"  he  replied  reflectively,  "no-o,  not  so 
long.  She  wasn't  over  three  year  old,  I  guess— 
mebbe  four — or  a  little  rising  that." 

"That  was  a  good  pudding,"  he  added,  as  he 
handed  back  the  dish,  with  three  fresh  eggs  in  it. 

189 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

II.      AVALON   IN   WlNTEB 

The  season  on  Santa  Catalina  Island  is  from 
June  to  September.  Then  the  hotels,  the  room- 
ing houses,  the  tents  on  the  camp  grounds  and  the 
private  cottages  are  overflowing  with  pleasure- 
seeking  humanity,  who  sometimes  crowd  the  capac- 
ity of  the  island's  one  little  town  to  such  a  degree 
that  the  evening  boat  from  San  Pedro  is  held  over- 
night to  give  shelter  to  people  unable  to  secure  a 
roof  over  their  heads  on  shore.  So  we  made  our 
first  visit  to  Santa  Catalina  in  winter. 

To  speak  of  winter  on  Santa  Catalina,  however, 
is  a  concession  to  the  nomenclature  of  the  almanac, 
for  in  and  about  Avalon,  which  to  the  transient  visi- 
tor is  the  whole  island,  one  rarely  sees  the  ther- 
mometer below  forty,  and  only  so  low  as  that  on 
sunless  stormy  mornings,  or  in  the  chill  hours  be- 
tween midnight  and  dawn.  To  the  hilltops  of  the 
inland,  Jack  Frost  comes  occasionally  during  Janu- 
ary and  February,  but  he  is  shy  of  descending  to 
the  beach,  sheltered  as  it  is  on  three  sides  by  the 
lofty  hills.  In  fact  the  weather  recorders  have 
worked  it  out  that  the  mean  winter  temperature  of 
Avalon  averages  but  eleven  degrees  Fahrenheit  be- 
low that  of  summer.  The  winter,  in  short,  is  merely 
summer  over  again  with  a  few  cool  rains  and  fogs, 
and  rarely  a  high  wind  thrown  in.  When  New  York 
is  icebound  and  the  Middle  West  lies  under  five  feet 
of  snow,  here  in  Avalon  the  sweet  alyssum  blooms 

190 


WINTER  ON  THE  ISLE  OF  SUMMER 

wild  on  the  hillsides;  down  in  "Uncle  Johnnie V 
park  and  over  by  the  golf  links,  the  malva-rosa  sets 
its  pretty  buds  and  spreads  its  bright  petals ;  in  cot- 
tage gardens,  geraniums,  mignonette,  yellow  oxalis 
and  many-hued  nasturtiums,  regardless  of  the  cal- 
endar, flower  untiringly;  and  old  residents  sho\y 
with  pride  tomato  vines  many  years  old,  as  high  as 
the  roof,  untouched  by  frost. 

A  feature  of  the  Santa  Catalina  climate  that  al- 
ways surprises  the  winter  visitor,  who  naturally  ex- 
pects to  find  an  atmosphere  of  greater  moisture  on 
an  island  than  upon  the  mainland,  is  the  compara- 
tive absence  of  dampness.  The  marked  chill  that 
comes  into  the  evening  air  of  the  California  coast 
region  as  soon  as  the  sun  approaches  its  setting, 
making  one  hurry  into  one's  wraps,  is  noticeably 
lacking  at  Avalon.  The  temperature  does  fall,  of 
course,  but  the  winter  night  has  all  the  balminess 
of  those  occasional  cool,  summer  nights  of  the  East 
that  follow  upon  a  west  wind  devoid  of  humidity. 
For  outdoor  sleeping,  such  nights  are  among  the 
pleasantest  in  the  world. 

There  being  no  crowd  in  winter,  except  during 
the  few  midday  hours  when  the  steamer  from  the 
mainland  is  in  with  her  load  of  day  excursionists, 
the  visitor  with  leisure  has  the  pick  of  the  island's 
accommodations.  Even  the  haughty  hotel  proprie- 
tors condescend  now  to  notice  you  and  are  your 
faithful  and  obliged  servants  to  command  at  a  sub- 
stantial discount  from  summer  rates.  Mrs.  Brown, 

191 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

the  baker's  wife,  has  furnished  cottages  to  rent, 
"very  reasonable,''  as  her  modest  sign  written  in 
violet  ink  on  a  sheet  of  note  paper  tacked  up  in  the 
post  office,  informs  the  public.  So  has  Abalone 
.Jack's  widow,  in  whose  matronly  care  several  of 
the  summer  cottagers  have  left  their  keys  and  in- 
structions to  let  no  respectable  inquirer  for  lodg- 
ings escape.  Mrs.  Robinson,  too — her  husband  con- 
ducts a  rival  bake-shop  to  Mr.  Brown,  and  she  her- 
self is  a  motherly  body  with  the  warm  heart  and 
racy  speech  that  mark  the  daughters  of  Erin — Mrs. 
Robinson,  too,  has  usually  a  darlin'  little  furnished 
flat  to  let  in  her  house,  with  the  privilege  of  using 
her  own  piano  and  parlor  of  an  evening,  if  you 
should  be  a  bit  lonely. 

Indeed  if  one  wants  to  be  quite  independent  and 
at  the  same  time  live  in  the  most  economical  way, 
there  is  no  better  plan  than  to  rent  a  small,  furn- 
ished cottage  or  a  room  or  two  in  one  of  the  many 
houses  fitted  up  for  light  housekeeping.  The  latter 
are  usually  arranged  in  suites  of  two  or  three  rooms, 
each  suite  with  its  little  porch  and  bit  of  view,  one 
of  the  rooms  being  fitted  up  for  a  combined  kitchen 
and  dining-room,  with  a  gasoline  stove  for  cooking, 
and  running  water  at  the  door. 

We  spent  half  a  day  walking  up  one  hilly  street 
and  down  another,  finding  "To  Let"  signs  on  all 
sorts  of  little  camps  and  bungalows  with  queer 
names  that  must  have  taxed  the  inventive  humor  of 
their  owners  to  the  snapping  point— "Res t-a-bit," 

192 


WINTER  ON  THE  ISLE  OF  SUMMER 

"Munnysunk,"  "Peek  Inn,"  "Never  Inn,"  and  the 
like.  Finally  we  decided  upon  a  two-storied  cot- 
tage perched  upon  a  hill  back  of  Avalon  so  steep  of 
approach  that  we  felt  sure  that  none  hut  the  sound- 
est in  heart  and  the  most  determined  in  will  would 
ever  visit  us.  We  began  climbing  steps  as  soon  as 
we  were  within  hailing  distance  of  the  place.  The 
first  two  flights  brought  us  to  the  level  of  the  gar- 
den path;  two  more  flights  delivered  us,  well 
winded,  on  the  little  porch  at  the  front  door.  To 
the  southward,  over  the  tops  of  the  eucalyptus  grove 
in  which  many  of  the  summer  camps  of  Avalon 
are  embowered,  rose  the  oak-dotted  hills,  green  that 
January  day  as  ever  an  emerald  was;  to  the  east- 
ward, at  our  feet,  the  roofs  of  the  little  town  with 
tree-tops  and  aspiring  vines  pushing  up  masses  of 
verdure  and  flowers  between  the  buildings,  and  far- 
ther out,  the  crescent  bay  of  Avalon,  sparkling  in 
the  sun  and  dotted  with  little  craft  of  varied  sorts ; 
and  as  our  delighted  gaze  wandered  still  farther 
eastward  across  the  white-capped  waters,  lo,  above 
the  fogline  of  the  mainland  shore,  the  heavenly, 
snow-capped  crest  of  the  Sierra  Madre  and  its  out- 
lying peaks  from  sixty  to  a  hundred  miles  away— 
"Old  Baldy,"  "Graybaek,"  San  Jacinto— a  view 
which  in  many  of  its  aspects  brought  to  mind  the 
Bay  of  Naples. 

Within  the  cottage  was  a  living-room,  half  win- 
dows, as  befitted  so  lovely  an  outlook,  with  a  snug 
little  fire-place  in  one  corner,  for  fires  of  eucalyptus- 

193 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

bark  on  snappy  mornings  and  evenings;  and  there 
were  two  bedrooms,  a  little  kitchen  with  a  sink,  a 
dining-room  and  a  bathroom;  upstairs  were  two 
more  bedrooms  and  a  roofed  porch  open  on  three 
sides  to  the  winds  of  heaven,  where  we  vowed,  if 
the  place  became  ours,  we  should  spread  our  mat- 
tress and  sleep,  steeped  in  that  softest  of  night  airs 
in  which  the  tender  warmth  of  the  winter  sun's 
last  beams  seemed  to  linger  until  he  rose  again. 
There  was  a  little,  neglected,  precipitous  garden, 
plunging  down  to  the  neighboring  houses  whose 
roofs  were  far  below  us ;  a  swarm  of  flaming  gera- 
niums were  in  riotous  bloom  there,  and  the  first 
modest  wild  flowers  of  the  year  were  peeping  out 
from  the  green  grass. 

"It  is  just  what  we  want  and  what  we've  dreamed 
of,"  we  confessed  to  each  other  sotto  voce,  "but  of 
course  we  can  never  pay  the  price." 

The  agent  eyed  us  anxiously,  as  we  screwed  our 
faces  into  Gradgrind  hardness  and  indifferently 
asked  the  rate.  Then  he  faltered  out— he  was  a 
shrinking  kind  of  old  man,  as  though  used  to  being 
browbeaten — 

"I'll  have  to  charge  you  fifteen  dollars  a  month 
for  it.  The  owner  instructed  me  not  to  take  a  cent 
less.  You  see,  it  has  seven  rooms  and  a  bath,  and 
in  summer  it  would  fetch  sixty,  easy.  Do  you  think 
maybe  you  could  pay  fifteen?" 

For  an  answer  we  paid  down  a  month's  rent  in 
advance,  and  the  old  man  departed  promising  to 

194 


WINTEK  ON  THE  ISLE  OF  SUMMER 

bring  us  some  clean  linen  and  a  tea-kettle  lid  which 
was  lacking.  Then  sitting  down,  in  the  pleasant 
winter  sunshine,  in  the  midst  of  all  that  glory  of 
green  canon-side  and  blue  sky  and  flashing  sea  and 
dreamy,  distant  mountains,  we  estimated  ways  and 
means : 

Eent,  one  month,   . .,. . . .,. .,. ., , ,. . . .  $15.00 

Gasoline  for  cooking,  and  kerosene  for  lamps 

and  oil  heater, 10.00 

Provisions  for  two  (including  Wilmington 
water  for  drinking,  the  Avalon  water  be- 
ing very,  very  hard), , 45.00 

Total  expenses  for  two,  one  month,  . ... .,. .  $70.00 

That  averaged  somewhat  less  than  $1.20  per  day 
for  each  of  us,  with  all  the  comforts  of  home  and 
the  most  beautiful  outlook  on  an  island  whose  cli- 
mate has  no  superior  on  the  Lord's  lovely  earth. 
One  cramped  little  room  at  the  hotel,  with  board, 
would  have  cost  us  even  at  the  monthly  rate  more 
than  twice  as  much.  To  be  sure,  our  housekeeping 
plan  was  based  on  our  doing  our  own  cooking.  But 
then,  as  we  pharisaically  remarked  to  each  other, 
that  meant  better  cooking;  and  we  could  always 
have  the  things  we  liked  the  way  we  liked.  Besides 
we  had  room  enough  to  give  afternoon  teas  to  all 
Avalon,  and  keep  a  friend  overnight. 

4 'We '11  stay  three  months  1"  we  cried  raptur- 
ously, and  we  did. 

195 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

The  steamer  arrives  from  the  mainland  but  once 
a  day  in  winter,  bringing  the  mail,  the  milk,  the 
fresh  vegetables,  and  the  daily  crowd  of  sightseers, 
and  its  coming  is  what  the  arrival  of  the  daily  stage 
is  to  a  backwoods  village.  It  is  due  a  half-hour 
after  noon,  and  as  the  hour  draws  near,  a  feeling  of 
expectation  and  suspense  begins  to  settle  upon  Ava- 
lon.  The  excursion  launches  from  Moonstone 
Beach  and  Seal  Rocks  come  puffing  in,  and  the  fish- 
ermen who  went  out  at  dawn  return  with  their 
catches  and  stories  of  the  big  ones  that  got  away — 
the  gulls  screaming  and  flapping  along  in  the  wake 
of  the  boats.  The  nurses  with  the  babies  and  chil- 
dren straggle  in  with  treasure  from  the  beach  and 
rocks — starfish  and  luckless,  stranded  jelly-fish, 
sometimes  even  a  little  octopus  or  a  live  abalone,  and 
always  strings  of  bladdery  brown  kelp  and  seaweeds 
and  shells  of  divers  sorts.  The  hotel  runners  and 
the  men  with  boats  to  hire  put  a  fresh  stock  of  cards 
in  their  pockets,  clear  their  throats  and  don  natty 
little  caps  with  the  names  of  their  establishments 
in  gold  lace  lettering  on  the  bands.  The  curio  deal- 
ers add  what  jauntiness  they  may  to  their  conglom- 
erate stock  of  shells  and  pictures,  kelp  canes  and 
bristling  star-fish  with  a  little  dusting  here  and 
there;  and  knots  of  people  gather  along  the  side- 
walk and  on  the  porches  facing  the  bay,  speculating 
on  the  extent  of  the  passenger  list  as  they  watch 
with  heightening  interest  the  growth  of  the  black 
speck  far  out  at  sea  into  the  dark-hulled  steamer 


From  the  hills  you  look  directly  down  on  the  golf  links  of 
Avalon 


WINTER  ON  THE  ISLE  OF  SUMMER 

with  her  white  houses  and  glistening  upper  deck  and 
the  rail  crowded  with  humanity.  Then  when  she 
rounds  Sugar  Loaf  and  blows  a  hoarse  salute,  the  big 
power-boats  with  glass  bottoms  push  out  to  her, 
and  men  with  megaphones  stun  the  ear  and  dazzle 
the  fancy  with  offers  of  their  services  to  visit  the 
submarine  gardens,  whose  far-heralded  glories 
probably  bring  more  visitors  to  Avalon  in  winter 
than  any  other  one  thing,  for  the  fishing  is  not  then 
at  its  best.  Here  and  there,  little  rowboats  are 
darting  close  to  the  steamer  as  she  reaches  her  pier, 
and  boys  in  swimming  attire  are  clamoring  to  the 
passengers  to  throw  small  coins  into  the  sea,  to  be 
dived  for  and  caught  before  they  reach  the  bottom 
of  the  transparent  water.  Then  as  the  gang  plank 
is  lowered,  and  the  tide  of  passengers  starts  to  flow 
to  land,  the  band  at  the  big  hotel  begins  to  play,  the 
Japanese  bell-boys  stir  about  and  button  up  their 
jackets,  and  every  restaurant  on  the  island  front, 
from  Delmonico's  to  the  Klondike  wakes  to  ecstasy 
its  gongs  and  triangles  to  attract  the  hungry. 

From  now  on  to  three  o'clock,  when  the  steamer 
is  to  leave,  is  Avalon 's  busy  time  of  day.  After 
that  when  the  boat  has  taken  on  again  her  restless 
load  and  departed,  the  little  town  resumes  its 
wonted  placidity.  There  is  just  enough  of  human 
life  on  the  beach  promenade  to  engage  your  holiday 
mood  comfortably— a  few  elderly  ladies  in  golf  caps 
with  cameras  or  a  botany  book,  a  sprinkling  of  chil- 
dren, a  portly  old  gentleman  or  two  on  the  retired 

197 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

list,  an  occasional  nervous-eyed  man  of  business 
dropped  here  so  recently  by  the  steamer  that  his 
thoughts  have  obviously  not  yet  arrived  from  the 
stock  market.  Then  here  are  respectable  citizens 
from  the  rural  districts  of  the  Middle  West  who 
have  saved  up  for  years  for  this  the  great  trip  of 
their  lives,  possible  to  them  only  in  winter  when 
things  are  quiet  on  the  farm.  Of  course  the  ubi- 
quitous British  tourist  is  here,  too,  in  tweeds  and 
overgaiters  and  wonderful  waistcoats.  Gum-chew- 
ing California  girls,  bare-armed  and  bare-headed, 
swagger  about,  with  their  "fellows"  smoking  along- 
side; and  at  five  o'clock  the  cholos  straggle  in  from 
their  labors  on  the  roads,  very  foreign-looking  in 
steeple-crowned  straw  hats  pinched  in  at  the  top. 

The  sense  of  absolute  removal  from  the  storm 
and  stress  of  the  world's  mad  race,  enabling  you  to 
get  your  breath  and  renew  your  strength  for  your 
next  sally  into  the  world  beyond  the  mountains,  is 
what  endears  an  Avalon  winter  to  you.  Hither  as 
to  that  more  famous  Avalon  whither  King  Arthur 
was  borne  to  be  healed  of  his  wounds,  comes  many 
a  business-buffeted  pilgrim  and  is  quite  as  effectu- 
ally cured.  Sitting  on  the  beach  as  the  evening 
shadows  lengthen,  the  departing  steamer  long  since 
swallowed  up  in  the  mainland  mists;  listening  to 
the  scolding  of  the  gulls,  and  the  barking  of  the 
seals ;  watching  the  sun 's  low  beams  light  up  to  gold 
the  sails  of  the  ships  bound  up  and  down  the  coast 
and  bathing  in  mysterious  amethystine  tints  the  far- 

198 


WINTER  ON  THE  ISLE  OF  SUMMER 

off  mountains,  the  visitor  begins  to  feel  the  chains 
of  care  loosen  their  grip  upon  him,  and  to  realize 
that  some  things  about  which  he  had  been  worrying 
himself  sick  are  no  affair  of  his  at  all.  The  knowl- 
edge that  nothing  can  interfere  with  this  novel 
sense  of  isolation  from  the  world's  whirl  until  the 
steamer  comes  again  tomorrow  afternoon,  sends  a 
delicious  thrill  through  his  weary  frame  and  he  does 
not  wonder  that  there  are  people  who  have  come  to 
Avalon  to  spend  a  day  or  two  and  have  stayed  six 
years — in  fact,  are  there  yet! 


199 


TOURIST  TOWNS 
I.     SAN  DIEGO  AND  SANTA  BAKBAEA 

WITH  the  first  frosts  comes  the  vanguard  of 
winter  tourists  to  Southern  California;  and 
the  streets  of  a  dozen  little  cities  that  make  a  bid 
for  tourist  trade  arouse  themselves  as  a  drought- 
stricken  country-side  brightens  up  after  rain. 
Shops  deserted  during  the  long,  dry  days  of  sum- 
mer now  run  up  their  shades  and  blossom  out  into 
all  sorts  of  allurements  for  the  tourists'  patronage. 
There  are,  for  instance,  windows  full  of  California 
and  Mexican  gems — tourmalines,  opals,  moon- 
stones, turquoises,  and  sardonyx;  and  beside  them 
are  trays  of  Navajo  silver  bracelets,  buckles  and 
rings,  and  abalone  brooches,  cuff-buttons,  paper  cut- 
ters and  what  not,  in  all  colors  of  the  sunset  and 
more.  Navajo  blankets  blaze  in  doorways  and  In- 
dian baskets  in  designs  both  aboriginal  and  sophisti- 
cated, catch  the  eye  at  every  turn.  The  bidders  for 
the  cheaper  trade  sort  over  their  last  season's  tar- 
antulas and  scorpions,  mounting  them  on  clean 
pasteboards,  and  dust  off  their  left  over  trap-door 
spider's  nests  and  horned  toads.  In  the  book 
stores,  Mission  photographs  are  put  nearer  the 

200 


TOURIST  TOWNS 

door,  and  "Ramona" — perennial  best  seller  in 
Southern  California — is  stacked  up  on  the  counter; 
while  every  art-shop  with  its  picture  of  golden  pop- 
pies and  scarlet  pepper-berries,  fuzzy  eucalyptus 
blossoms  and  fiery  poinsettias,  becomes  a  sort  of 
Hesperian  hortus  siccus.  Chinese  and  Japanese 
shops  spring  up  over  night  with  their  punky  smell 
of  the  Orient,  theii-  alluring  dress-goods  and  potter- 
ies and  carvings,  their  devils  and  dragons  and 
bald-headed  old  men  in  bric-a-brac,  and  their  ex- 
quisite teacups  and  squat  teapots,  world  without 
end.  The  streets  thicken  daily  with  automobiles  un- 
til well  after  New  Year's,  and  the  old  residenter 
who  knows  most  of  the  permanent  population  by 
heart,  finds  rare  entertainment  in  the  new  faces  that 
each  day  brings.  Pretty  girls  in  the  latest  Eastern 
thing  in  hats;  elderly  ladies  of  comfortable  embon- 
point, with  lorgnettes  and  lapdogs;  stout  old  gen- 
tlemen clean-shaven  and  florid,  with  Scotch  bottoms 
to  their  shoes,  bespeaking  a  solid  footing  in  bank 
directorates;  nervous,  dyspeptic-looking  "Big  Busi- 
ness "  presidents  grudgingly  taking  a  little  relaxa- 
tion by  the  doctor's  orders;  young  bloods,  without 
hats  and  in  white  flannels,  talking  golf,  polo  and 
motor-cars — every  day  you  see  these  types  and 
many  another,  taking  the  air  and  enjoying  the  sun 
from  November  till  the  lambs  of  March  are  skipping 
again  in  Eastern  fields,  when  they  begin  to  vanish 
away. 

But  the  tourist  of  the  motor-car  type  is  by  no 

201 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

means  the  only  one.  He  is,  of  course,  the  mainstay 
of  the  big  hotels  whose  rates  start  in  at  four  dol- 
lars a  day  and  leave  off  goodness  knows  where ;  but 
of  the  scores  of  thousands  who  every  winter  visit 
California,  only  a  small  proportion  can  afford  that 
style.  Far  more  numerous  is  quite  another  sort 
of  tourist — those  who  after  the  railroad  has  de- 
livered them  on  the  Coast,  have  mighty  little  left 
but  their  return  tickets.  Many  of  these  are  from 
the  farming  districts  of  the  Middle  West.  They 
stroll  about  with  poppies  and  big  oranges  in  their 
hands,  and  to  their  pleased  vision  the  sights  are  the 
sights  of  a  foreign  land.  Now  and  then  you  see  one 
unexpectedly  meet  an  old  neighbor  from  home  and 
then  it's  a  slap  on  the  back  and  a  pump-handle 
shake,  and  " Hello,  if  it  ain't  Hi  Smith!  Where  in 
thunder  did  you  drop  from?  I  thought  you  was 
snowed  in  and  froze  up  back  in  Ottumway!"  This 
sort  may  stop  at  a  small  hotel  or  a  boarding  house, 
or  they  may  rent  a  room  or  two  in  a  private  home 
and  do  light  housekeeping,  or  they  may  get  their 
meals  out ;  their  sight-seeing  is  done  on  electric  cars 
and  the  "rubberneck"  automobiles,  and  they  are 
steady  patrons  of  the  picture  post-card  stands. 
Some  of  them  thriftily  carry  an  oil  stove  in  their 
trunk,  get  their  breakfast  on  it,  and  dine  at  a  cafe- 
teria. Do  you  know  what  a  cafeteria  is?  It  is  a 
waiterless  restaurant,  where,  following  the  crowd 
in  single  file  down  an  aisle,  you  pick  up  an  empty 
tray,  and  arrived  before  a  great  table  spread  with 

202 


TOUKIST  TOWNS 

viands  cold  and  hot,  yon  indicate  your  choice  and 
have  it  placed  on  your  tray  by  the  attendant  disher- 
up  behind  the  table.  Then,  filing  past  a  desk  for 
your  check,  you  pass  into  the  general  room  filled 
with  little  tables.  You  take  your  seat  at  one  and 
eat  your  meal  in  peace  and  quiet,  paying  the  amount 
of  your  check  to  the  cashier  at  the  door  as  you  go 
out.  You  pay  for  every  item  you  get,  even  the  use 
of  the  napkin,  and  there  is  nothing  particularly 
cheap  about  the  plan.  Its  popularity,  which  is  great 
on  the  Pacific  Coast — Los  Angeles  has  scores  of 
cafeterias — is  based  on  wholesome  home  cooking,  the 
opportunity  afforded  to  see  just  what  you  are  going 
to  get  before  ordering  it,  and  the  absolute  inde- 
pendence of  the  delays  and  humors  of  the  profes- 
sional waiter. 

In  our  gossip  about  the  tourist  towns  we  are  not 
thinking  especially  of  Los  Angeles,  though  in  a  very 
important  sense  it  is  the  tourist  city  of  California 
par  excellence,  the  very  hub  of  the  tourist  country, 
from  which  radiate  in  all  directions  the  trips  that 
make  up  a  large  part  of  the  visitors'  pleasuring. 
But  if  one  is  going  to  winter  in  a  big  Los  Angeles 
hotel  or  apartment  house  in  the  midst  of  an  ambi- 
tious, seething  American  metropolis  of  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  people,  one  might  almost  as 
well  be  in  New  York  or  Chicago  for  all  the  taste 
that  is  had  of  any  life  racy  of  the  Californian  soil. 
The  city  is  now  so  big,  so  full  of  business  of  one  sort 
and  another  that  in  a  multiplicity  of  interests  the 

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UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

tourist  in  Los  Angeles,  while  exceedingly  esteemed, 
is  not  just  the  noticeable  feature  that  he  is  in 
smaller  places. 

Each  of  California's  tourist  resorts  has  its 
marked  individuality,  though  there  is  one  feature 
common  to  all  that  might  be  eliminated  in  the  in- 
terests of  seemly  brotherly  love,  and  that  is  a  dis- 
position in  each  to  speak  slightingly  of  the  others. 
The  tourist  who  in  Santa  Barbara,  for  instance,  has 
a  good  word  to  speak  of  San  Diego,  is  quickly  aware 
of  a  drop  in  the  local  temperature;  while  to  dilate 
in  San  Diego  upon  the  fine  climate,  say  of  Pasadena, 
is  to  defy  the  lightning.  Climate,  in  fact,  is  San 
Diego's  specialty.  On  that  and  its  bay,  San  Diego 
was  founded,  and  by  virtue  of  both  it  has  reached 
its  present  eminent  station  in  the  sisterhood  of  Cal- 
ifornia towns.  If,  by  any  chance,  you  are  so  obtuse 
as  not  to  notice  the  climate  during  the  first  day  of 
your  stay,  the  San  Diegans  mention  it  to  you — in 
fact,  din  it  in  your  ears;  and  it  is  a  fine  climate. 
It  is  more  equable  than  that  of  any  of  the  other 
tourist  resorts  of  the  mainland— warmer  in  winter, 
cooler  in  summer,  with  less  difference  at  all  sea- 
sons between  day  temperatures  and  night,  and  it  is 
claimed  that  San  Diego  averages  three  hundred  and 
fifty-six  days  in  the  year  on  which  the  sun  shines. 
On  many  of  these  same  days,  to  be  sure,  the  sun- 
shine is  sandwiched  between  substantial  slabs  of 
fog;  nevertheless  it  shines  enough  to  squeeze  into 
the  records. 

204 


TOUEIST  TOWNS 

"Yes,  sir,"  your  San  Diego  friend  will  tell  you, 
"we  have  the  world  buffaloed  on  climate,  and  as  for 
that  bay,  do  you  know  its  equal  V9 

"There's  the  Bay  of  Naples,"  you  venture,  heed- 
lessly, "have  you  seen  that?" 

"With  such  a  bay  as  this  before  my  eyes?"  he 
snorts.  "I  don't  have  to!" 

And  there  is  no  denying  that  it  is  a  beautiful  har- 
bor. Seen  from  the  city  hills  with  the  dreamy 
mountains  of  Mexico  to  the  south,  and  with  Point 
Loma's  ocean-cleaving  headland  and  the  Coronado 
peninsula  stretched  like  protecting  arms  about  its 
blue,  sunlit  waters,  it  forms  a  lovely  foreground  to 
the  Pacific's  white-capped  expanse  and  the  mar- 
velous sunset  skies  when  day  sinks  to  China. 

In  the  matter  of  antiquity,  too,  San  Diego  makes 
somewhat  of  a  specialty.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  cradle 
of  California's  nativity.  Into  the  quiet  bay  came 
Cabrillo's  caravels  of  discovery,  in  1542,  and  here 
in  1769  the  Spanish  King  planted  the  first  of  his 
California  colonies  which  were  to  save  the  territory 
from  the  designs  of  Kussia,  while  at  the  same  time 
the  Franciscan  friar,  Junipero  Serra,  hungry  for 
heathen  souls  to  save,  founded  here  the  first  of  his 
chain  of  Indian  Missions  in  the  wilderness.  The 
crumbling  walls  of  the  Mission  church,  half  hid- 
den in  a  valley  three  or  four  miles  back  of  the 
modern  city,  and  a  few  melting  adobes  by  the  ven- 
erable date  palms  in  the  bayside  suburb  known  as 
Old  Town,  are  our  only  remaining  architectural  lega- 

205 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

cies  from  that  early  day  when  Serra  first  looked 
upon  this  land  of  his  dreams  and  found  it  "a 
goodly  land,  the  wild  vines  loaded  with  grapes  and 
the  roses  like  the  roses  of  Castile."  But  the  San 
Diego  that  we  know  was  born  in  the  brain  of  quite 
a  different  character — a  Connecticut  gringo  affec- 
tionately known  to  all  American  San  Diegans  as 
"Father  Horton."  A  century  after  Serra,  he 
came  to  the  sleepy  little  Mexican  pueblo,  liked  the 
climate  and  the  bay,  and  settling,  started  a  "boom" 
in  both  that  has  never  been  allowed  to  cease.  His 
long-headed  purchase  of  a  thousand  acres  at  twen- 
ty-six cents  per  acre  where  the  present  city  stands, 
is  one  of  the  first  historical  facts  communicated  to 
the  visitor  and  never  fails  to  gain  for  Father  Hor- 
ton 's  genius  the  respect  of  the  average  American 
tourist,  who  may  or  may  not  be  impressed  by  the 
Franciscan  Father's  spiritual  investments. 

Two  special  jewels  in  San  Diego's  crown  are  the 
seaside  resorts  of  La  Jolla  and  Coronado.  The 
former  is  a  dozen  miles  away  in  a  little  corner  of 
the  coast,  with  Soledad  Mountain  at  its  back,  and 
the  islands  of  Santa  Catalina  and  San  Clemente 
dimly  showing  in  the  ocean  mists  before  it.  It  is 
perched  on  the  edge  of  a  bluff,  strangely  honey- 
combed with  remarkable  caves,  which  the  tides  of 
ocean  daily  fill  and  empty.  There  are  submarine 
gardens  here,  and  it  is  the  ambition  of  the  profes- 
sional boatmen  to  make  them  a  drawing  card  for 
tourists,  as  at  Santa  Catalina,  but  unfortunately  na- 

206 


TOUEIST  TOWNS 

ture  has  not  given  La  Jolla  the  quiet  waters  of 
Avalon,  and  boating  over  the  La  Jolla  gardens,  es- 
pecially in  winter,  is  ticklish  business.  The  mag- 
nificent ocean  sunsets,  the  fine  surf  effects  and  the 
quiet  beauties  of  the  long  beach,  make  La  Jolla  a 
favorite  with  artists  as  well  as  with  the  more  leis- 
urely sort  of  tourists  who,  winter  and  summer, 
haunt  the  place  to  sit  on  the  sunny  rocks,  go  fishing, 
enjoy  the  moonlight  and  do  light  housekeeping  in 
the  furnished  cottages  and  apartments  which  enter- 
prising local  capitalists  have  set  up  for  them 
a-plenty. 

Coronado,  at  the  tip  of  its  peninsula  just  across 
the  bay  from  San  Diego,  is  quite  another  sort  of 
place.  You  reach  it  by  a  quaint  old-fashioned 
ferry-boat  in  a  few  minutes,  or  you  can  motor  to  it 
by  way  of  Otay,  twenty  miles,  around  the  edge  of 
the  bay.  Like  so  many  things  in  the  world,  Coro- 
nado is  tripartite.  There  is  the  permanent  residen- 
tial section  of  the  usual  pretty  cottages,  bungalows 
and  mansions  smothered  in  shrubbery  and  flowers 
to  which  the  traveler  in  California  quickly  becomes 
accustomed;  then,  if  it  be  summer,  there  is  the  fa- 
mous city  of  tents  laid  out  in  regular  streets,  upon 
the  beach,  the  tents  rented  furnished  or  unfur- 
nished to  crowds  of  holiday  sojourners  for  whose 
benefit  special  restaurants  are  maintained;  and 
finally,  dominating  all,  is  the  Hotel  del  Coronado, 
known  wherever  California  literature  circulates,  its 
red  roofs  and  cone-topped  turrets  thrust  up  above 

207 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

enveloping  trees.  It  is  a  huge  caravansary  built 
four-square  about  the  seclusion  of  an  entrancing 
garden-court  open  to  the  sky  and  planted  with 
palms,  coprosmas,  bougainvilleas,  bottle-brushes 
and  many  another  exotic.  Many  of  these  plants 
which,  in  the  chilly  North,  are  customarily  coddled 
in  tubs  and  greenhouses,  are,  here  in  this  genial 
clime,  arboreal  in  their  growth,  and  their  branches 
are  trained  as  screens  along  the  railings  of  the  sec- 
ond-story gallery  that  looks  down  upon  the  court. 
Without,  the  grounds  are  beautiful  with  shrubbery, 
vines  and  trees,  where  winding  paths  lead  always 
to  pleasant  vistas  of  the  sea.  The  surf  runs  in  al- 
most to  the  hotel,  and  upon  the  sheltered  verandas 
facing  the  ocean  one  may  watch  through  a  leafy 
framing  of  trees  the  ships  of  commerce  and  of  war 
pass  up  and  down  the  horizon  as  they  go  upon  their 
business  between  the  ports  of  Spanish  America 
and  the  harbors  of  the  North.  If  a  man  have  an 
elastic  bank  account  and  a  taste  for  conventional 
amusements,  the  Coronado  is  a  sort  of  lotus  land, 
luring  to  prolonged  stay.  Congenial  spirits  from 
all  over  the  world  will  foregather  with  him  here, 
and  the  entertainment  never  flags — golf,  polo,  arch- 
ery, tennis,  sailing,  fishing,  surf-bathing,  horseback- 
riding,  motoring,  aeroplaning,  music— and,  of 
course,  always  climate. 

A  tourist  city  by  the  sea  that  suggests  compari- 
son with  San  Diego  is  Santa  Barbara.  It  has  had 
no  Father  Horton  to  forge  its  destinies,  and  its 

208 


TOURIST  TOWNS 

open  roadstead  is  not  hospitable  to  shipping ;  so,  in 
point  of  growth,  it  has  lagged  behind  its  southern 
sister.  It  has  preserved  more,  however,  of  what  is 
especially  dear  to  the  romance-loving  tourist — a 
certain  Old  Worldly  flavor  inherited  from  its  Span- 
ish past  and  kept  going  by  a  plentiful  survival  of 
picturesque  adobe  buildings,  but  especially  by  the 
well-preserved  and  restored  Mission  whose  brown- 
robed,  rope-girdled  and  sandaled  brothers,  in  their 
active  community  life,  are  perhaps  responsible  for 
more  visits  to  Santa  Barbara  than  any  other  one  of 
its  attractions.  And  where  else  in  these  United 
States  will  you  find  such  an  array  of  foreign  street 
names  and  localities?  Asking  your  way  about  the 
town,  the  morning  after  your  arrival,  you  feel  in 
fifteen  minutes  that  you  have  acquired  a  pretty  fair 
working  knowledge  of  Spanish  and  a  sprinkling  of 
Indian,  and  of  course  that  pleases  you  and  tends  to 
your  satisfaction  with  Santa  Barbara.  There  are 
among  streets,  for  instance,  Canon  Perdido  and 
Anapamu,  Arellaga  and  Micheltorena,  Pedragoso, 
Salsipuedes,  Parra  Grande.  There  is  the  old  De  la 
Guerra  house  to  be  hunted  up  and  the  Nonega  gar- 
dens, San  Ysidro  and  rose-embowered  Miramar 
and  El  Fureidis  in  Montecito  to  be  visited.  The 
Mission,  you  find,  is  not  just  Santa  Barbara ;  it  is, 
unedited,  La  Mision  de  Santa  Barbara  Virgen  y 
Martir.  The  mountains,  too,  that  rise  behind  the 
city  have  a  foreign  name.  Santa  Ynez,  unpro- 
nounceable until  you  hear  it,  and  then  the  words 

209 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

are  as  music  in  your  ears  for  life ;  and  the  little  un- 
fenced  park  by  the  beach,  where  the  band  plays, 
and  children  frolic  and  old  and  middle-aged  sun 
themselves  on  the  benches,  and  lovers  sit  on  the 
grass  under  the  palms  and  watch  the  sea  that  is 
bearing  their  ships  home  to  them — this  little  park 
is  not,  thank  heaven,  Americanized  into  a  "Pike" 
or  a  " Board-walk "  or  a  "White  Way,"  but  is  the 
Plaza  del  Mar,  open  to  the  sunshine  and  the  breeze. 

Why,  all  this  is  as  good  as  a  trip  abroad;  and  as 
you  stroll  up  State  Street  (for  a  wonder  it  is  not  La 
Calle  del  Estado)  and  see  Mexicans  eating  tamales 
and  chili  con  carne  in  the  restaurants,  and  stop  at 
Pio's  hole  in  the  wall  to  have  your  shoes  polished, 
the  illusion  is  further  enhanced.  Pio  is  a  philan- 
thropist, worth  knowing  if  you  have  no  friends  in 
Santa  Barbara.  He  will  translate  Spanish  words 
for  you  gratis,  and  as  a  local  directory  he  is  of  more 
worth  than  a  guidebook.  He  knows  restaurants 
and  their  prices,  and  the  ins  and  outs  of  rooming- 
places  are  at  his  finger  ends.  "Hombre,"  he  says 
confidentially,  "I  say  you  secret.  I  know  a  room, 
where  they  let  you  sleep  day-time  all  same  as  night, 
tambien—and  don't  cos'  you  no  more.  A  gentle- 
man what  is  travel  everywhere,  he  go  always  there 
when  he  come  to  Santa  Barbara ;  and  he  say  to  me, 
'Pio,'  he  say,  'you  have  friends  what  hongry  for 
sleep,  that's  good  place  for  to  send  them.'  " 

If  you  are  a  lover  of  life  in  the  saddle,  no  other 
of  the  tourist  towns  offers  you  quite  the  varied 

210 


TOURIST  TOWNS 

delights  of  Santa  Barbara.  You  may  stay  weeks 
there  and  every  day  canter  over  new  territory — 
along  the  beach  with  the  ocean  wind  and  the  fog  in 
your  face,  or  inland  among  the  ranches  of  walnuts 
and  beans  and  olives,  or  threading  the  winding 
roads  of  the  mountains'  seaward  slopes  with  their 
magnificent  outlooks  over  valley  and  town  and  blue- 
green  ocean  where  sunshine  and  rolling  mists  battle 
in  beauty.  Besides  the  roads  there  are  many  trails 
over  which  your  pony  will  carry  you  where  wheels 
cannot  go — deep  into  canons  beneath  the  perennial 
shade  of  live-oaks,  where  nemophilas  open  their 
wide,  blue  eyes  and  the  California  thrasher  trills 
and  whistles ;  or  up  to  the  very  crest  of  the  range- 
La  Cumbre,  as  the  Spanish  has  it — where  the  ocean 
view  is  supplemented  by  an  equally  compelling  one 
of  the  multitudinous  mountain  country  to  the  north, 
an  unpeopled  region  of  oaks  and  chaparral  and  wa- 
terfalls, and  of  caverns  upon  whose  walls  are  pic- 
tured records  of  redmen,  dead-and-gone.  Make  a 
day  of  it  on  these  jaunts ;  munch  your  cracker  and 
figs  with  the  dryads  under  the  giant  fronds  of  the 
woodwardia  ferns  by  some  spring  at  noon;  and 
come  down  to  the  lowlands  only  when  evening  falls, 
bringing  the  divine  help  of  the  hills  with  you  in 
your  uplifted  heart. 


211 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 


II.     TOURIST  TOWNS  OF  THE  OKANGE  BELT 

The  tourist  towns  of  the  orange  belt  are  Red- 
lands,  Riverside  and  Pasadena.  Of  these,  Red- 
lands  is  the  smallest,  but  it  has  a  special  charm 
from  its  sylvan  character.  The  better  class  of  res- 
idences— and  most  of  them  are  of  the  better  class, 
for  it  is  a  place  of  much  wealth — are  fairly  em- 
bedded in  shrubbery  and  orange  groves,  and  the 
murmur  of  hidden  waters  in  the  irrigating  ditches 
is  Redlands'  characteristic  music.  Magnificent 
rows  of  palms,  grevilleas  and  peppers,  miles  of 
them,  line  and  often  overarch  the  streets  and  make 
a  grateful  shade  in  summer  days  when  the  heat  of 
the  desert  just  around  the  corner  lays  its  hand  on 
Redlands,  and  most  residents  who  can,  make  holi- 
day Sittings  to  cooler  places.  The  proximity  of  the 
desert,  indeed,  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  marvel  of 
Redlands  which,  perhaps  more  strikingly  than  any 
other  California  town,  illustrates  the  transforming 
power  of  water  when  directed  by  man's  intelli- 
gence and  taste  in  an  arid  land.  Of  all  the  riotous 
growth  of  trees  and  shrubs  that  makes  the  Red- 
lands  of  to-day  the  paradisaical  garden  that  it  is, 
not  one  is  indigenous ;  all  have  been  planted  by  the 
Pauls  and  watered  by  the  Apolloses  of  the  last  quar- 
ter century.  At  Smiley  Heights,  to  whose  beauties 
every  visitor  to  Redlands  is  hurried  at  the  first  op- 
portunity, this  fact  is  patent  with  especial  force ;  for 

212 


TOURIST  TOWNS 

here,  just  across  the  line  which  marks  the  high  tide 
of  cultivation,  the  parched,  treeless  slopes  of  the 
desert  borders  lie  as  if  in  wait  for  man's  care  to 
be  withdrawn,  when  the  desert  will  sweep  in  again 
and  claim  its  own.  It  is  an  eloquent  contrast — on 
one  side  of  a  plough's  furrow  these  wastes  whose 
only  cover  is  scattering  sage-brush  and  wild  buck- 
wheat, and  on  the  other  this  artificial  wildwood  of 
eucalyptus,  deodars,  pines,  palms,  peppers,  acacias, 
olives,  oranges,  bamboos  and  a  perfect  wilderness 
of  roses.  That  is  the  story  of  all  Southern  Cali- 
fornia ;  but  nowhere  is  it  told  so  plainly  to  him  who 
runs  as  at  Redlands. 

In  all  the  world  there  are  few  more  lovely  bow- 
ers of  man's  building  than  this  smiling  park  of  the 
Canon's  Crest,  with  its  outlook  over  the  roofs  of 
Redlands,  peeping  out  here  and  there  amid  the  tree 
tops,  and  across  the  San  Bernardino  Valley  to  the 
great  snow-capped  mountain  wall  that  shuts  in  Cal- 
ifornia's tourist  country  on  the  east.  Set  every- 
where about  the  park  are  little  rustic  kiosks  with 
thatched  roofs  of  palm-leaf,  inviting  to  far  niente 
and  dreams.  Here,  dreaming,  I  was  brought  to 
earth  one  day  by  the  voice  of  a  stranger  youth  who 
stood  at  my  elbow. 

" Bully  scenery,  all  right,  ain't  it?"  he  remarked. 
He  was  a  sturdy  young  fellow  in  a  corduroy  suit 
and  a  cow-boyish  sort  of  hat,  and  his  gaze  was 
directed  toward  the  San  Bernardino  moun- 
tains. 

213 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

I  assented,  and  to  keep  the  ball  rolling,  asked  if 
he  was  a  stranger  in  Redlands. 

"I'm  working  in  a  restaurant  for  two  months 
now,  but  the  old  man's  gone  to  Los  Angeles  to-day, 
and  he  said  shut  the  shebang  till  he  gets  back;  so 
I'm  having  a  holiday  and  seeing  the  burg.  Say, 
which  is  the  mountain  they  call  Grayback?" 

I  pointed  it  out. 

"And  the  desert  is  just  beyond,  and  the  Mo- 
rongo  country,  ain't  it?" 

I  thought  so.    Did  he  want  to  go  there? 

"Well,  mebbe,"  he  answered;  "a  friend  of  mine 
knows  where  there's  some  good  prospects  in  them 
Morongos,  and  we  may  hit  the  trail  this  summer. 
The  restaurant  will  be  shut  down  then." 

' '  Summer  is  a  pretty  dangerous  time  to  be  on  the 
desert,"  I  cautioned,  knowing  the  heedlessness  of 
youth. 

"You  bet  you,"  he  said,  "or  any  other  time.  I 
lived  on  it  six  years  before  I  come  inside,  and  I 
swore  I'd  never  go  back." 

I  took  another  look  at  him  and  saw  lines  in  his 
face  that  showed  him  to  be  older  than  I  had  at  first 
taken  him  to  be.  And  there  were  streaks  of  gray 
in  his  hair,  yet  he  could  not  have  been  thirty. 

"Prospecting?"  I  asked. 

"Huh-huh,"  he  grunted,  as  he  pulled  at  a  plug  of 
tobacco.  "There's  not  bad  money  in  that;  but  not 
on  your  own  hook.  There's  most  by  working  for  a 
company;  me  for  that. 

214 


TOURIST  TOWNS 

"Why,  you  see,"  he  went  on,  in  response  to  my 
request  for  further  enlightenment  on  this  branch 
of  the  business  which  was  new  to  me,  ' l  there  are  big 
mining  companies  will  hire  men  nowadays  to  go 
out  in  the  desert  to  prospect  for  them.  They  grub- 
stake the  fellows  and  pay  seventy-five  to  two  hun- 
dred dollars  a  month  wages,  besides  a  percentage 
in  claims  they  locate  that  pan  out.  All  the  pros- 
pector has  to  put  up  is  his  own  burros.  It's  a  bet- 
ter proposition  in  the  long  run,  I  think,  than  run- 
ning your  own  game;  for  you  can't  go  broke;  but 
you've  got  to  be  good — keep  sober,  play  fair  and 
deliver  some  goods  or  nobody '11  hire  you.  w 

"Yes,  sir" — he  was  dreamily  gazing  beyond  the 
beautiful  little  city  of  homes  nestled  in  orange 
groves  at  our  feet,  away  to  the  grim  mountains  that 
looked  down  on  the  lava  beds,  the  drifting  sands,  the 
alkali  sinks  and  devil's  half -acres  of  the  Morongo 
country  that  filled  his  mind's  eye — "yes,  sir,  once  I 
swore  I'd  never  go  back  to  the  desert  again.  It  was 
this  way:  Me  and  my  pardner,  Johnny  Eyan — he 
was  a  big  six-foot-four  Irishman  and  weighed  two 
hundred  and  eighty  pounds — we  got  lost  somehow 
and  missed  a  tank  we  knew  of.  So  we  had  to  let  the 
burros  go  and  light  out  for  water  wherever  it  was. 
Johnny  strapped  seventy-five  pounds  of  stuff  on  his 
back  and  I  packed  thirty  on  mine — I  was  kind  of 
weak  and  off  my  feed,  anyhow— and  we  hoofed  it 
across  the  desert  for  four  days  straight,  twenty- 
eight  or  thirty  miles  a  day,  looking  for  water  and 

215 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

the  way  in.  We  each  had  a  little  in  our  canteens ; 
but  we  daren't  any  more  than  just  wet  our  lips  with 
it,  and  just  as  it  was  all  about  gone  and  me  and 
Johnny  was  all  in,  we  struck  a  waterhole.  That 
cured  me  of  the  desert  for  a  while,  and  I  vowed  I'd 
never  set  foot  on  the  place  again ;  but  I  dunno,  seems 
to  be  looking  good  again.  Oranges  is  all  right  and 
sure  pretty;  but,  somehow,  they  don't  look  good  like 
sagebrush. ' ' 

So  does  the  desert  hold  its  own. 

Your  Redlands  friends  will  probably  not  lend 
much  encouragement  to  any  plans  you  have  for  vis- 
iting Riverside;  for,  after  Redlands,  Riverside 
seems  to  them  skimmed  milk.  Nevertheless  go,  if 
for  no  other  reason  than  to  see  how  the  Mission 
note  has  been  incorporated  in  a  hotel  by  that  prince 
of  modern  Bonifaces,  the  master  of  Riverside's 
Glenwood  Mission  Inn.  That,  indeed,  is  Riverside 
to  the  average  tourist.  Like  the  Coronado,  it  is  a 
little  world  in  itself,  but  unique  in  its  reincarna- 
tion of  the  material  features  of  the  California  of  a 
century  or  more  agone,  when  the  Franciscan  Mis- 
sions were  practically  the  whole  of  its  civilization 
and  the  recognized  stopping  places  for  travelers. 
The  arched  corridors,  facing  a  sunny  patio  where 
one  may  sip  one's  afternoon  tea  among  roses  and 
under  the  pleasant  shade  of  tropic  trees;  the  cam- 
panario,  with  its  sweet-toned  bells  that  chime  out 
old  hymns  at  noon  and  eventide ;  the  cloistered  mu- 
sic-room, with  its  pipe  organ,  and  atmosphere  so 

216 


TOURIST  TOWNS 

chapel-like  that  one  talks  there  in  whispers;  the 
shadowy  walls,  where  old  banners  hang  and  an- 
cient armor  and  pictures  of  saints  and  kings;  the 
cloister  walk  with  mural  pictures  of  the  Missions 
and  images  of  saints  in  lighted  niches ;  the  monkish 
refectory  with  its  old  Spanish  kitchen  in  one  cor- 
ner; the  roof -garden  of  the  bells,  where  quaint  and 
ancient  samples  of  the  founder's  art  the  world  over 
are  suspended;  the  churchly  books  and  illuminated 
manuscripts  on  vellum  that  lie  to  the  hand  upon 
tables  and  window-seats  everywhere, — is  there  such 
another  hotel  in  all  the  modern  world  as  this  Mis- 
sion Inn  at  Riverside?  Looking  deeper  than  to  the 
mere  creature  comfort  that  most  hotels  are  content 
to  strive  for,  it  touches  a  man's  spirit,  if  his  soul  be 
not  dead  to  the  appeal  of  beauty  and  romance  and 
high  purpose;  and  so  in  a  very  real  sense,  it  is  a 
mission,  as  well  as  an  inn.  And  then  there  is 
Joseph,  the  dignified  macaw  with  coat  of  many  col- 
ors, who  has  the  freedom  of  the  entire  hotel  and  its 
grounds,  his  wings  being  clipped,  and  is  the  pet  of 
every  guest.  Why,  it  is  worth  the  price  of  a  day's 
lodging  to  sit  in  an  easy  chair  by  St.  Catherine's 
well  and  watch  Joseph  go  his  leisurely  round.  He 
perches  on  the  wrists  of  such  as  he  approves  of; 
climbs  over  their  shoulders  and  down  their  backs; 
sidles  up  tree-limbs,  cocking  his  eye  the  while  like 
Bunsby's  on  the  coast  of  Greenland;  stands  care- 
fully on  his  head  at  the  top  of  a  pole;  is  photo- 
graphed a  hundred  times  a  day;  takes  a  bath  under 

217 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

the  hydrant;  meditates  profoundly  on  chair  backs, 
and  other  things  conformable  to  claws;  ogles  the 
pretty  girls  in  golf  and  tennis  outfits,  as  they  come 
and  go;  till  finally  when  the  day  is  done  and  the 
vesper  chimes  have  sounded  and  electric  lights  re- 
place the  sun,  he  is  carried  off  to  his  perch  in  a 
special  niche  in  the  wall  reserved  for  him  and 
blanketed  in  from  the  night  chill. 

To  stop  at  an  inn  so  steeped  as  this  in  the  spirit 
of  the  Mission  days  is  a  fitting  prelude  to  another 
unique  experience  which,  at  Easter,  Riverside  of- 
fers to  the  traveler — the  Sunrise  Pilgrimage  to  the 
summit  of  Rubidoux  Mountain.  This  round  knob 
of  barrenness  in  a  plain  on  the  outskirts  of  River- 
side has  in  recent  years  been  provided  with  a 
broad,  winding  roadway  of  easy  grade,  leading  to 
the  summit  where  a  great  wooden  cross  has  been 
erected  to  the  memory  of  the  Franciscan  Father, 
Junipero  Serra.  Hither,  on  every  Sunday  at 
dawn,  afoot  and  by  automobile,  come  crowds  of 
Riversidians  together  with  the  strangers  within 
their  gates,  and  gathering  about  the  cross,  await 
the  sun.  As  it  appears  above  the  snowy  crest  of 
the  San  Bernardino  Sierra,  the  people  bare  their 
heads  and  unite  in  a  brief  religious  service,  the  or- 
der of  it  being  printed  upon  a  sheet  and  copies  pre- 
viously distributed  among  the  throng.  As  one 
stands  in  this  reverent  assembly  upon  a  mountain- 
top  beneath  the  sky,  one's  heart  is  hard  indeed  if  it 
is  not  made  tender  by  the  spirit  of  this  simple  of- 

218 


TOURIST  TOWNS 

faring  of  praise  and  adoration  to  the  risen  Lord  of 
Life.  Serra,  as  he  lay  dying,  told  his  followers 
that  he  would  "use  his  influence  with  God"  before 
whom  his  spirit  was  soon  to  appear,  to  prosper  the 
Missions  of  their  Father  Francis.  Such  an  unseo- 
tarian  gathering  as  this  annually  on  Eubidoux, 
owing  its  inspiration  to  Serra 's  selfless  work  on 
behalf  of  one  little  fragment  of  the  human  race, 
would  seem  to  show  that  in  a  larger  way  than  he 
thought  the  Franciscan's  prayer  is  being  answered. 
While  not  every  tourist  finds  it  convenient  to 
visit  Eiverside  or  Redlands,  few  fail  to  see  Pasa- 
dena, which  occupies  at  the  western  end  of  the  or- 
ange belt  a  superb  situation  on  an  elevated  bench 
of  land  at  the  foot  of  high  mountains,  a  situation 
very  similar  to  that  occupied  by  Redlands.  The 
magnet  of  wealth  probably  has  a  good  deal  to  do 
with  this  influx  of  visitors;  for  the  fame  of  Pasa- 
dena's millionaire  residents,  whose  sumptuous 
homes  line  Orange  Grove  Boulevard  for  a  mile  and 
a  half  and  dot  hundreds  of  acres  at  Oak  Knoll,  is 
nation-wide.  Popular  report  credits  the  little  city 
with  being  the  richest  per  capita  in  California;  but 
I  do  not  find  that  this  is  quite  the  truth,  though  its 
average  in  this  not  very  important  matter  is,  owing 
to  the  presence  of  the  aforesaid  men  of  millions, 
unquestionably  high.  In  point  of  fact,  besides  a 
considerable  number  of  business  men  and  wage- 
earners  going  daily  to  their  vocations  in  Los  An- 
geles, its  citizenship  includes  a  large  leisure  and 

219 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

semi-leisure  class  of  very  moderate  means,  who,  by 
economy  and  thrift,  manage  to  live  well  on  modest 
incomes  in  a  climate  of  rare  excellence — retired 
farmerfolk  from  the  Middle  West,  semi-invalided 
merchants  from  the  Eastern  Coast  States,  pen- 
sioned college  professors  and  school  teachers  from 
everywhere,  who  have  come  hither  in  the  afternoon 
of  life  to  "crown  a  youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of 
ease." 

More  potent  than  millionaires,  however,  who 
nowadays  are  too  common  to  be  of  the  prominence 
they  once  were,  is  Pasadena's  other  specialty,  the 
New  Year's  open-air  fete,  known  as  the  Tourna- 
ment of  Roses.  This  really  fine  pageant  has,  for 
over  twenty  years,  been  an  annual  feature  in  Pasa- 
dena and  draws  thither  on  New  Year's  Day  per- 
haps a  hundred  thousand  people  from  all  over  Cal- 
ifornia and  the  East  every  year.  It  was  never,  in 
any  sense,  a  real-estate  advertising  scheme,  though 
this  has  been  often  said  of  it ;  but  was  the  disinter- 
ested suggestion  of  Dr.  C.  F.  Holder,  whose  account 
of  its  history  is  authority  for  the  facts  here  given. 
Its  first  presentation  was  in  1888,  under  the  au- 
spices of  the  Valley  Hunt  Club,  the  pioneer  social 
organization  of  Pasadena,  and  was  given  "as  a  po- 
etic and  artistic  celebration  of  the  most  important 
event  in  California  at  the  time — the  ripening  of  the 
orange.  It  was  a  greeting  of  Flora  to  the  fruits." 
The  date  was  fixed  as  January  first,  because  that  was 
the  nearest  general  holiday  to  the  time  when  or- 

220 


TOURIST  TOWNS 

anges  began  to  be  picked.  At  the  suggestion  of  a 
member  who  had  seen  the  Battle  of  the  Roses  in 
Rome,  that  feature  was  originally  introduced,  giv- 
ing the  title  to  the  fiesta,  which  title  still  holds, 
though  the  feature  itself  has,  for  many  years,  been 
given  up.  As  at  present  given,  the  Tournament  of 
Roses  is  a  whole  day's  affair.  In  the  morning  is  a 
street  parade  of  fine  saddle-horses,  carriages  and 
automobiles,  lavishly  decorated  with  flowers  and 
greenery;  cleverly  devised  floats,  historical  or  rep- 
resentative of  contemporary  features  of  California ; 
and  marching  clubs,  the  dominant  feature  in  all  be- 
ing the  display  of  flowers  blooming  in  the  open  in 
California  at  a  time  when  the  rest  of  the  country 
is  largely  snow-bound.  The  afternoon  is  given 
over  to  sports  of  various  kinds  at  a  large  concourse 
known  as  Tournament  Park.  The  principal  event 
among  these  has,  for  many  years,  been  a  series  of 
chariot-races,  each  chariot  drawn  by  four  horses 
abreast.  As  these  chariots,  which  are  models  of 
the  famous  quadriga  of  the  old  Romans,  tear 
around  the  course,  their  drivers  urging  on  the 
madly  flying  steeds  amid  clouds  of  swirling  dust, 
the  twentieth  century  crowd  arises  and  cheers  as 
enthusiastically  as  did  ever  one  in  Rome's  old  Coli- 
seum in  the  days  of  the  Caesars. 

One  needs  to  live  in  Pasadena  to  realize  how 
closely  this  Tournament  of  Roses  is  bound  up  in  the 
life  of  the  people.  When  autumn  is  well  under  way 
and  the  tourists  begin  to  drop  in,  the  Tournament 

221 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

Committee  gets  down  to  work,  arranging  the  de- 
tails of  the  programme  and  giving  out  contracts. 
Delinquent  members  of  the  Association  are 
drummed  for  their  dues.  Tournament  squibs  and 
paragraphs,  inciting  to  civic  pride  in  the  coming 
event,  pop  at  you  every  day  or  two  from  the  local 
newspapers.  Residents  are  urged  to  be  diligent  to 
protect  their  flowers  from  untimely  frosts  or  the 
yearly  "Santa  Ana"  which  has  a  way  of  swooping 
down  from  the  desert  for  a  night's  demoniac  blow 
just  before  the  winter  rains  set  in.  In  December, 
the  Weather  Man  becomes  the  most  pampered  of 
citizens.  He  must  be  kept  in  good  humor  at  all 
hazards.  First,  he  is  coaxed  to  send  a  gentle  pre- 
liminary storm  to  freshen  up  the  gardens;  then, 
about  Christmas,  he  is  daily  cajoled  to  keep  the 
skies  clear  till  the  day  after  New  Year's  at  least. 
The  last  few  days  before  the  Tournament  are 
nerve-racking  to  a  degree,  on  account  of  weather 
possibilities;  for  a  wet  New  Year's  Day,  of  course, 
means  complete  collapse  of  this  fete.  It  is  remark- 
able that,  in  all  the  twenty-odd  years  of  its  holding, 
not  once  has  there  had  to  be  a  postponement  on  ac- 
count of  weather.  In  1910,  indeed,  failure  did 
seem  imminent.  A  heavy  rainstorm  set  in  during 
the  last  days  of  December  and  continued  during  the 
thirty-first  without  signs  of  passing.  Flowers  had 
been  gathered  between  showers  and  in  the  rain  and 
were  abundant  enough;  but,  if  the  rain  should  con- 
tinue into  the  next  day,  there  could  be  no  parade, 

222 


TOURIST  TOWNS 

for  the  delicate  vestments  of  participants  and  the 
gauzy  draperies  of  many  of  the  floats  could  not 
stand  it — to  say  nothing  of  the  lack  of  spectators. 
Moreover,  the  railroads  had  arranged  for  excur- 
sions from  various  points,  and  must  know  abso- 
utely  the  night  before  if  the  Tournament  was  to  be 
held  or  not.  If  not,  they  must  notify  their  patrons 
at  once. 

The  Weather  Man  had  no  hope  to  offer.  The 
Committee  met  for  decision  in  the  early  evening — 
the  rain  still  falling — and  their  sporting  blood  was 
up.  There  was  but  one  view — the  Tournament, 
rain  or  shine ;  and  the  news  was  flashed  instantly  in 
every  house  in  Pasadena  by  the  dipping  of  the  elec- 
tric lights,  according  to  a  prearranged  signal  an- 
nounced in  the  evening  papers.  The  decoration 
of  the  entries  went  on  all  night  in  garages,  barns 
and  back-kitchens,  to  a  very  devil's  tattoo  of  de- 
scending torrents;  and  when  morning  broke,  the 
storm  still  hovered  over  the  city.  Before  nine 
o'clock,  however,  the  rain  held,  and  when  the  her- 
alds sounded  their  trumpets  for  the  march  to  begin, 
the  sun  was  shining,  though  fitfully.  The  Tourna- 
ment was  held,  Pasadena  New  Year's  record  was 
saved  unbroken,  and  at  nightfall — the  storm  set  in 
again! 

III.    MONTEREY 

The  stout  lady  from  New  York  settled  herself  in 

223 


UNDEE  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFOENIA 

her  seat  as  the  train  began  its  half -hour  run  from 
Castroville  to  Monterey. 

"To-day's  Wednesday,"  she  calculated  aloud. 
"We'll  rest  at  Del  Monte  this  afternoon,  and  do 
the  drive  they  talk  about  in  the  morning ;  and  then 
couldn't  we  be  in  San  Francisco  to-morrow  night?" 

That's  Monterey  to  most  tourists — Del  Monte 
and  the  Seventeen  Mile  Drive;  only  not  quite  all 
are  so  grudging  of  time  as  the  stout  lady.  Give  it 
a  week,  if  you  can,  and  if  you  are  of  a  contempla- 
tive mind,  disposed  to  the  study  of  a  romantic  past 
and  a  picturesque  present,  after  you  have  seen  Del 
Monte,  go  on  to  the  old  town  of  Monterey,  and  there 
put  up  at  a  little  commercial  hotel  on  Alvarado 
Street  that  any  traveling  man  can  tell  you  of.  It 
has  a  modest  little  entrance,  which  you  will  surely 
walk  past  in  the  dark  and  have  to  inquire  your  way 
back  of  the  tamale  man  at  the  corner;  but  once  in- 
side, you  will  find  a  wide  hearth  where  a  woodfire 
glows  and  crackles,  a  dignified  black  cat  answering 
to  the  name  of  Nig,  who,  properly  approached  will 
sit  up  on  his  haunches  like  a  dog  and  shake  hands, 
a  bed  above  suspicion  and  a  delightful  table  (if 
Charley,  the  Chinese  "boy,"  still  does  the  cook- 
ing), all  for  two  dollars  and  a  half  a  day. 

Or,  if  there  are  two  or  three  of  you  and  you  have 
a  taste  for  the  independence  of  light-housekeeping, 
you  may  do  as,  perhaps,  you  have  done  in  Europe, 
stay  the  night  at  the  hotel  and  the  next  morning, 
walk  the  streets  in  quest  of  the  familiar  sign  of 

224 


TOUEIST  TOWNS 

"Furnished  Rooms  to  Let"  in  cottage  windows. 
Such  apartments  you  will  find  most  to  your  taste  at 
Pacific  Grove  into  which  Monterey  insensibly 
merges  at  the  south.  Here,  as  at  Santa  Barbara, 
the  flowers  are  fat  and  chubby  from  the  tonic  of  the 
sea  air.  Roses,  pelargoniums,  heliotropes,  pan- 
sies,  nasturtiums,  irises,  pinks,  poppies  and  callas 
nod  a  welcome  to  you  at  every  turn,  and  you  will 
almost  miss  the  sign  you  are  looking  for,  because 
of  the  luxuriance  of  its  floral  framing.  Yes,  you 
will  like  it  at  Pacific  Grove,  settled  in  your  cottage 
rooms,  with  a  bit  of  porch  to  yourselves,  a  view  of 
the  ever-changing  beauties  of  sea,  the  perpetual 
music  of  the  surf,  the  perfumes  of  the  garden,  and, 
like  as  not,  a  crabbed  old  Chinaman  with  baskets 
swung  from  a  yoke  across  his  shoulders,  to  bring 
you  fresh  fish  as  often  as  you  want  it. 

To  be  sure,  Pacific  Grove  lacks  the  historic  inter- 
est and  down-at-the-heel  picturesqueness  that  is  old 
Monterey's,  but  to  the  heart  where  the  love  of  na- 
ture dwells,  it  makes  rare  appeal,  with  the  solemni- 
ties of  its  encompassing  pines  and  its  sunny,  wind- 
swept, turfy  downs,  bright  with  sea-daisies,  Cali- 
fornia buttercups  and  eschscholtzias,  and  ending 
suddenly  at  the  sea's  edge  in  perpendicular  cliffs 
and  huge  rock-masses  drenched  with  spray,  that  re- 
mind you  of  New  England's  coast.  But  whatever 
the  season,  be  sure  to  bring  warm  clothing;  for  it 
is  a  coast  of  chill  fogs  and  searching  winds  at  times, 
and  the  times  are  not  predictable. 

225 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

A  dingy,  little,  yellow  electric-car  runs  at  decent 
intervals  between  Pacific  Grove  and  Monterey  for 
the  benefit  of  non-pedestrians;  but  pleasanter  than 
track  of  steel  is  the  old  foot-pathway  that  Steven- 
son doubtless  often  trod,  along  the  downs  that  skirt 
the  sea,  and  the  sweet,  grassy  lanes  that  lead 
through  the  settlement  of  Chinese  fishermen  with 
its  racks  and  trellises  for  drying  nets,  and  queer 
ideographic  signs  and  smoldering  joss-sticks  to 
placate  the  devil  withal;  and  on  past  the  shops  of 
the  jolly  Japanese  boat-builders,  to  the  spider- 
legged  pier  of  the  oil  company  where  tank  steamers 
lie  tied  up  to  bobbing  buoys  and  suck  into  their 
hollow  holds  the  black  petroleum  piped  hither  a 
hundred  miles  from  Coalinga  beyond  the  moun- 
tains. So  do  we  come  to  the  little  creek's  mouth, 
now  all  but  choked  up,  where  tradition  places  the 
landing  of  Padre  Serra  in  1770  and,  perhaps,  of 
Vizcaino  in  1602,  when  this  caballero  of  fortune  dis- 
covered and  named  the  bay  of  Monterey,  describing 
it  after  a  fashion  so  much  in  the  style  of  the  florid 
California  advertising  literature  of  to-day  that,  for 
a  hundred  and  sixty-eight  years,  no  subsequent 
passer-by  seemed  to  recognize  the  place.  Here  we 
may  climb  the  hill  of  the  Presidio,  where  our  Gov- 
ernment maintains  an  army  post,  and  sitting  upon 
an  antique  Spanish  cannon  in  the  old  earthworks  at 
the  top,  look  out  across  the  town  and  the  bay  to  the 
dim  arm  of  land  thrust  seaward  beyond  Santa 
Cruz,  hiding  another  that  the  old  Spaniards  named 

226 


TOURIST  TOWNS 

Punta  de  Ano  Nuevo— -the  Point  of  the  New  Year, 
Below  us  at  our  backs,  upon  the  sunny  parade 
ground,  the  bugles  will  be  playing  if  the  troops  are 
drilling,  or  perhaps  there  is  baseball  on  the  Pre- 
sidio diamond  between  noisy  nines  of  the  infantry 
and  cavalry.  Soldiers,  in  fact,  are  a  cherished 
feature  of  Monterey,  and  we  run  up  against  them 
at  every  turn,  singly  or  in  squads  at  street  corners, 
on  the  water-front  watching  the  fisher-folk,  loiter- 
ing about  saloon  doors,  or  discussing  enchiladas  in 
the  Spanish  casas  de  comida  and  abalone  steaks  in 
Wo  Hop's  Chinese  restaurant. 

Monterey's  streets,  except  where  Americanism  is 
creeping  in,  have  the  charm  of  country  lanes.  They 
fork  off  at  unexpected  angles;  along  their  grassy 
borders  run  footpaths,  and  behind  old  adobe  walls 
with  tile  copings  are  tangled  gardens  that  smell 
sweet  and  bear  fruit  and  are  the  happy  playgrounds 
of  little  children  whose  prattle  in  the  Spanish  which 
seems  Monterey's  only  proper  tongue,  falls  pleas- 
antly on  your  ear.  It  is  in  these  streets  of  the 
older  town  that  the  quaint  adobe  houses  stand, 
whitewashed  and  galleried  and  square  of  roof, 
which  link  Monterey  so  vividly  with  the  period  of 
Spanish  supremacy.  They  are  but  few  now,  these 
out-at-elbow  aristocrats  of  a  day  that  is  gone,  but 
they  give  to  the  whole  place  a  flavor  of  unmistak- 
able gentility.  Most  have  been  identified  with  the 
part  in  history  they  have  played,  and  to  such  are 
affixed  modest  labels  of  identification.  The  events 

227 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

recorded  are,  as  a  rule,  more  interesting  to  Cali- 
fornians  than  to  others,  as  they  have  to  do  mainly 
with  the  capture  and  first  occupation  of  the  State 
by  the  United  States — not  altogether  a  savory 
memory.  The  picturesqueness  of  the  buildings, 
however,  and  the  indefinable  atmosphere  of  ro- 
mance that  clings  to  all  las  cosas  de  Espana,  are  of 
a  universal  appeal,  and  so  Monterey  has  been  a 
home  to  the  bearer  of  more  than  one  honored  name 
in  literature  and  art.  The  one  all  know  is  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson's.  A  dilapidated  adobe  mansion 
in  a  decaying  part  of  the  town,  passes  for  a  house 
in  which,  thirty-odd  years  ago,  he  had  lodgings  for 
a  few  months  and  slept  rolled  in  his  blankets  on  the 
floor.  Above  the  door  is  a  sign,  weather-beaten  as 
the  house,  reading:  "R.  Stevenson  House."  A 
carriage  painter  makes  use  of  a  room  or  two  for 
his  simy  needs  and  a  couple  of  Spanish  families 
are  quartered  in  other  rooms.  The  rest  is  given 
over  to  vagrant  winds  and  bats. 

One  must  not,  however,  confuse  the  R.  Stevenson 
of  the  sign  with  the  R.  L.  S.  of  immortal  literature ; 
for  Monterey,  it  seems,  has  harbored  Stevensons 
and  Stevensons,  as  I  learned.  Seeking  something 
more  picturesque  than  the  barren  front  of  this 
structure  with  its  broken  plaster  and  gaping  win- 
dows, I  come  upon  a  partially  shut-in  quadrangle 
in  the  rear  where  the  sun  brightens  into  a  dozen 
lovely  tints  the  time-stained  walls,  and  where  a  sag- 
ging outside  stairway  leads  alluringly  to  an  upper 

228 


TOURIST  TOWNS 

story.  Here  trees  cast  dappled  shadows  on  the 
grass  and  lazy  murmurs  drift  in  from  the  unseen 
street,  and  here  Rosalia  Ybarra,  in  a  calico  gown 
of  startling  hues  and  designs,  appears  to  do  wash- 
ing in  her  intervals  of  labor.  To-day  the  sun  is 
very  pleasant  along  the  old  wall  and  she  is  enjoying 
its  warmth,  the  while  watching  little  Marquitos  play 
in  the  mud.  Seeing  me  open  my  camera  she  would 
inject  Marquitos  into  the  picture;  but  he,  from  in- 
fantile shyness,  drifts  into  the  shadow  of  the  steps, 
to  Rosalia's  evident  disappointment.  It  is  ar- 
ranged, however,  between  us  to  get  the  muchachito 
well  in  the  sunny  foreground,  and  though  he  ducks 
his  head  at  the  cannon-like  instrument  pointed  at 
him,  the  shutter  snaps  before  he  escapes  to  the 
shade  again.  So  Rosalia  claps  her  hands  and 
laughs  comfortably  and  gives  me  her  address  that  a 
print  may  be  sent  her.  She  is  very  frier.  Y%.  is  Ro- 
salia, good-humored  and  fat,  and,  though  we  have 
never  met  before,  ready  to  inform.  Oh,  yais,  senor, 
she  know'  Mr.  Stevenson  ver'  wail — he  ver'  reech 
gentleman  what  own'  ver'  much  houses  and  get 
good  rent.  Yais,  he  was  die'  now,  but  one  time  ago 
he  live'  in  this  house — ver'  fine  house  in  them  day' 
-what  you  call  hotel,  and  many  people  they  use' 
to  board  this  house.  Books?  Oh,  yais,  he  write 
books,  too — ver'  reech  man,  Mr.  Stevenson. 
Adios,  and  the  senor  would  not  forget  to  send  the 
picture  what  he  make? 

From  Monterey  you  may  motor,  trolley,  drive  or 

229, 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFOKNIA 

foot  it  to  Del  Monte — it  is  only  a  mile.  If  you  go 
by  vehicle,  have  your  driver  take  you  the  longest 
way  round  through  the  glorious  woodland  which 
envelopes  the  hotel  on  all  sides — a  wildwood  of  na- 
tive pines,  cypresses  and  oaks  in  gray  draperies  of 
hanging  moss,  huge  eucalypts  and  countless  bloom- 
ing shrubs.  And,  if  you  walk,  follow  the  same  de- 
vious way.  And  after  you  have  wound  round  and 
round-about  for  the  best  part  of  a  mile,  like  a 
knight-errant  of  old  in  search  of  an  enchanted  cas- 
tle, suddenly  it  gleams  out  at  you  through  the  trees 
— the  red  roofs  and  spirelike  chimneys  and  pinna- 
cles of  the  hotel,  islanded  in  a  lake  of  emerald  lawn 
dotted  with  English  daisies  and  ordered  beds  of 
flowers.  While  architecturally  the  hotel  is  less  im- 
posing than  the  Coronado,  it  is  this  sylvan  ap- 
proach that  makes  a  visit  there  a  memorable  ex- 
perience in  life,  and  you  do  not  get  it  in  its  fullness 
when  you  enter  from  the  railroad  station  which  is 
already  well  in  the  midst  of  the  grounds.  One 
might  dream  away  days  sitting  in  the  shade  of  the 
magnificent  trees  or  lingering  among  the  beds  of 
exotic  bloom,  or  getting  lost  and  found  again  in  the 
bewildering  labyrinth  of  the  cypress  maze,  or  con- 
templating the  grotesque  wonders  of  the  cactus 
garden  defended  by  the  humiliating  notice,  "All 
persons  are  requested  not  to  cut  their  names 
or  initials  on  the  cactus  leaves."  Truly  a  high 
seat  in  heaven  is  meet  for  these  philanthropic 
souls  who  throw  their  parks  open  to  the  American, 

230 


TOUEIST  TOWNS 

public,  knowing  the  vandal  instincts  of  the  race. 
The  automobile  era  has  elongated  Monterey's 
Seventeen  Mile  Drive  into  a  thirty-five  mile  drive 
now ;  but  the  original  seventeen  holds  the  cream  of 
the  matter.  Contemplative  travelers  of  sound 
wind  and  limb,  may  advantageously  walk  it,  taking 
a  day  to  the  adventure,  with  camera  and  a  bit  of 
lunch  along,  unless  they  prefer  to  spend  the  price 
of  an  abalone  chowder  at  Pebble  Beach  Lodge,  a 
rustic  outpost  of  the  hotel  half-way  round  the  cir- 
cle. The  essential  charm  of  this  famous  drive  is 
the  untouched  natural  beauty  of  the  park-like  re- 
gion it  traverses.  Man  has  made  a  road  and  then, 
with  unwonted  modesty,  withdrawn  in  Nature's 
favor.  The  entrance  is  barred  by  a  toll-gate  whose 
"open  sesame, "  if  you  are  a  rider,  is  California's 
hackneyed  "two  bits";  but  the  pedestrian  passes 
free  to  his  heritage.  For  nearly  two  miles,  the 
hard  gravel  road,  old  enough  now  to  have  all  its 
lines  softened  by  time,  winds  in  sun  and  shadow, 
opening  ever  new  vistas  through  a  forest  of  native 
pines,  where  Stevenson  loved  to  walk.  Years  after, 
when  he  was  writing  "Treasure  Island,"  Mrs.  Os- 
bourne  tells  us,  he  drew  on  his  memories  of  this 
Monterey  country  for  descriptions  of  the  place  of 
the  buried  gold  in  that  immortal  story.  Bracken 
and  shade-loving  blossoms  brighten  the  interspaces 
under  the  trees,  and  the  peace  of  Arden  fills  all  this 
lovely  woodland  where  the  song  of  the  southwest 
wind,  blowing  from  mid-Pacific  isles,  is  caught  in 

231 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

the  pine-tops,  and  the  murmur  of  the  surf  upon  the 
hidden  shore  sounds  faint  to  the  ear;  till,  by  and 
by,  the  forest  parts  like  a  curtain  and  lo !  the  green 
turfy  downs,  stretching  to  the  sands  where  the  surf 
breaks  white,  and,  beyond,  the  blue  waters  of  the 
Pacific,  sparkling  in  the  sun. 

And  then  for  another  two  miles  or  so,  we  saunter 
along  these  joyous  downs  where  birds  are  singing 
and  wild  flowers  raise  their  pretty  faces  to  ours; 
or  we  clamber  out  upon  the  rocks  and  watch  the 
sea-lions  sunning  their  oily  hides  on  rocky  islets 
amid  the  surf,  and  the  solemn  pelicans  drifting  on 
deliberate  wing  in  quest  of  fish,  which  they  stow  in 
their  ridiculous  portmanteaus  of  bills.  And  so  on 
to  a  wilderness  of  yellow  sand-dunes  beyond  which 
rises  wind-swept  Cypress  Point  whose  grotesque 
trees,  their  gnarled  and  twisted  boles  capped  with 
flattish  crowds  of  verdure  of  so  rich  and  deep  a 
hue  that  they  seem  like  moss-islands  in  the  air, 
were  a  land-mark  of  the  Spanish  pioneers.  Non- 
botanical  Montereyans  tell  you  these  trees  are  the 
same  as  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  but  they  are  of 
quite  a  different  genus.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
species  is  found  native  nowhere  in  the  world,  ex- 
cept along  a  narrow  strip  of  coast  about  two 
miles  in  length  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of 
this  Cypress  Point,  though  the  tree  is  now 
introduced  into  cultivation  in  many  places.  A  lit- 
tle further  and  we  look  into  the  blue  depths  of 
Carmel  Bay,  named  by  old  Vizcaino  who,  over  three 

232 


TOURIST  TOWNS 

centuries  ago,  christened  the  little  stream  that  emp- 
ties into  it  El  Kio  de  Carmelo,  out  of  regard  to 
three  Carmelite  friars  who  formed  the  ecclesiasti- 
cal department  of  his  expedition.  To  the  same 
sheltered  shore,  Don  Gaspar  de  Portola,  one  No- 
vember day  in  1769,  on  his  way  back  from  the  re- 
discovery of  San  Francisco  Bay,  came  searching 
for  the  lost  harbor  of  Monterey.  Being  unable,  from 
Vizcaino's  fanciful  description,  to  recognize  Monte- 
rey Bay  just  around  the  corner,  he  trudged  it  back 
to  San  Diego,  with  his  half-starved  command,  hav- 
ing first  planted  upon  a  hill,  not  far  off,  a  great 
white  cross.  Six  months  later,  Portola  came  again, 
and  with  him  Serra  and  his  Franciscans.  The 
cross  still  stood  looking  to  the  sea;  but  about  it 
strings  of  shells  were  festooned,  and  before  it,  as 
before  a  shrine,  were  offerings  of  feathered  arrows, 
and  the  flesh  of  animals  and  fish.  The  natives,  it 
seems,  had  found  it  rare  "  medicine ";  for  at  night, 
so  they  said,  the  white  arms  stretched  out  and  filled 
the  darkness  with  supernatural  fires,  reaching  even 
to  the  stars.  Doubtless  it  had  been  a  mute 
preacher  in  the  wilderness,  preparing  the  way  for 
Serra 's  apostolic  work.  The  cross  is  long  since 
gone,  but  the  Mission  church,  which  Serra  built  in 
the  lovely  Canada  del  Carmelo,  still  stands  par- 
tially restored,  and  before  its  altar  are  interred 
the  ashes  of  the  Father  and  of  Brother  Crespi,  who 
labored  with  him  in  this  remote  vineyard  of  the 
Lord. 

233 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

No  glimpse  may  be  had  of  the  old  church  from 
the  Seventeen  Mile  Drive  which,  turning  inland 
from  the  Bay,  penetrates  flowery  woodlands  by  hill 
and  dale,  back  to  the  country  road  that  leads  again 
to  Monterey;  but  there  is  a  footway  that  may  be 
shown  you,  down  through  a  dingle  and  across  an 
arroyo  and  up  a  fragrant  piney  hillside,  through 
a  turnstile — I  declare,  it  seems  like  a  bit  of  Eng- 
land—to the  back  gates  of  the  quaintest,  most  en- 
trancing and  most  homelike  of  all  California  beach 
resorts,  Carmel-by-the-Sea.  Moreover,  it  is  be- 
loved of  the  Muses,  and  traveler  folk  with  a  taste 
for  literary  pilgrimage,  like  to  include  it  in  their 
itineraries.  Though  not  yet  in  its  teens,  Carmel- 
by-the-Sea  is  as  old-timey  a  looking  village  as  you 
will  find  in  a  summer's  day — a  friendly  little  col- 
lection of  flower-embowered  cottages  and  tasteful 
bungalows  with  inviting  gardens,  in  the  heart  of  a 
pine  forest,  so  combining  the  natural  charms  of 
seaside  and  wildwood.  Here  Mary  Austin  has  her 
tiny  "  winter  wickiup "  and  high  in  a  pine  tree  be- 
hind it  an  aerial  work-room.  Here,  too,  are  homes 
of  the  novelist  sisters,  Grace  MacGowan  Cooke  and 
Alice  Mac  Gowan,  of  George  Sterling  the  poet,  of 
David  Starr  Jordan  of  educational  and  piscatorial 
fame,  and  of  a  dozen  more,  as  yet  less  known. 
Artists  of  the  brush  also  crop  out  on  every  hand, 
as  one  strolls  about ;  there  is  an  Arts  and  Crafts 
Club  and  a  Forest  Theater  whose  pillars  are 

234 


TOUEIST  TOWNS 

primeval  pines  and  whose  roof  the  sky;  and  there 
is  no  railroad  within  five  miles. 

And  down  the  main  street  of  Cannel-by-the-Sea, 
a  short  mile,  lies  in  pastoral  loveliness  the  vale  of 
Carmel  with  the  domed  Mission  in  its  midst,  and 
beyond  it  the  shining  waters  of  the  bay  and  the 
Sierra  Santa  Lucia,  by  whose  grim  passes  and  dizzy 
steeps,  treacherous  to  the  foot,  the  Spaniard  Por- 
tola  and  his  leather  jackets,  the  Credo  in  their 
mouths,*  came  and  went  in  quest  of  Monterey's  elu- 
sive bay,  missed  it,  and  came  again  and  found  it. 

*  Con  el  Credo  en  la  loca — the  quaint  phrase  of  Father  Crespi, 
the  chronicler  of  the  expedition. 


235 


EESIDENCE  IN  THE  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE 
I.    LIFE  IN  A  BUNGALOW 

ONE  of  the  most  hard-worked  words  in  Cali- 
fornia of  recent  years  is  bungalow.  In  its 
name  so  many  architectural  whimseys  have  been 
indulged  that  it  has  at  last  become  impossible  to  de- 
fine the  term  with  exactitude.  Anything  from  a 
plain,  unvarnished  shack  to  a  two-storied  palace 
with  tiled  roof  and  patio  may  be  dubbed  a  bungalow, 
and  few  dwellers  in  the  Land  of  Sunshine  are  will- 
ing any  longer  to  own  up  to  living  in  a  house  or  even 
a  cottage;  for  while  in  the  East,  the  climate  almost 
restricts  the  use  of  a  bungalow  to  a  sort  of  play- 
thing— a  vacation-camp  or  a  week-end  shelter — in 
California  it  is  taken  seriously  as  a  permanent  resi- 
dence. 

But  though  it  is  not  possible  to  draw  a  hard-and- 
fast  line  at  which  the  California  bungalow  style 
stops  and  something  else  begins,  there  is  one  thing 
sure:  that  when  you  see  a  cozy  one  or  one-and-a- 
half-story  dwelling  with  low-pitched  roof  and  very 
wide  eaves,  ample  porches,  lots  of  windows  and  an 
outside  chimney  of  cobble  or  clinker-brick  half  hid- 
den by  clinging  vines — that  is  a  bungalow,  whatever 

236 


RESIDENCE  IN  THE  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE 

other  houses  may  be.  In  Pasadena  and  Los  An- 
geles there  are  literally  miles  of  these  delectable 
little  dwellings,  hardly  any  two  just  alike.  Those 
two  cities  appear  to  be  the  special  places  where  the 
bungalow  habit  seriously  began,  though  the  fashion 
has  spread  very  largely  through  the  State.  In  size, 
the  popular  taste  is  for  five  or  six  rooms  (exclusive 
of  the  bath),  but  eight  or  nine  rooms  are  not  uncom- 
mon, though  this  greater  number  usually  necessi- 
tates an  upper  story.  Nowadays,  since  the  luxury 
of  outdoor  sleeping  has  come  to  be  appreci- 
ated, the  sleeping-porch  is  an  indispensable  ad- 
junct, and  this  may  be  part  of  the  ground  plan  or  set 
jauntily,  like  a  yacht's  cabin,  on  the  roof. 

The  building  material  is  generally  redwood  on  an 
Oregon  pine  framework,  the  foundation  being  cobble 
or  concrete ;  and  there  may  or  may  not  be  a  cellar. 
In  former  years,  building  was  often  started  right 
on  the  ground,  but  California  ground  is  damp,  in 
winter  especially;  and  if  you  want  to  escape  rheu- 
matism, your  floors  should  be  at  least  a  couple  of 
feet  above  the  earth.  An  artistic  effect  is  produced 
by  the  use,  in  some  cases,  of  cypress  shakes  for  the 
sides,  and  some  bungalows  are  built  entirely  of  con- 
crete, but  this  material  stares  you  out  of  counte- 
nance until  its  hard  surface  is  broken  up  and  softened 
by  vines  and  shrubbery.  The  style  of  construction 
may  be  what  is  locally  known  as  a  "  California 
house"— that  is,  unplastered,  with  battens  and  bur- 

237 


UNDEE  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

lap  inside  to  stop  the  cracks ;  but  this  means  a  maxi- 
mum of  cold  in  winter  and  of  heat  in  summer,  and 
while  less  expensive,  is  not  so  comfortable  as  the 
ceiled  bungalow,  which  is  the  customary  sort  now 
built.  Within  there  is  usually  paneling  half  way 
up  the  walls  in  the  beautifully  grained  Oregon  pine, 
stained,  not  painted;  there  is  a  built-in  buffet  in 
the  dining-room,  and  in  the  living-room  and  den 
built-in  book-cases  and  settles,  and  open  fireplaces. 
The  properly  appointed  bungalow  inside  stands 
for  comfort,  leisureliness  and  cheerfulness,  comport- 
ing with  a  climate  which  makes  for  the  same  quali- 
ties. Bungalow  life  is  informal  but  not  necessarily 
bohemian,  and  at  its  best  is  simple,  without  being 
sloppy.  If  it  is  winter,  the  open  fire  that  greets  you 
as  you  enter  directly  from  outdoors  into  the  living- 
room — there  is  no  hallway — is  a  pleasant  thing  for 
the  spirit,  even  if  hardwood  does  cost  fifteen  dollars 
a  cord.*  The  ample  windows  fill  the  house  with 
light,  not  glaring,  but  subdued  by  the  generous  over- 
hang of  the  eaves ;  and  there  is  the  perfume  of  vio- 
lets or  roses,  or  both,  in  the  air — they  have  not  come 
from  a  florist's,  but  from  under  the  window  outside. 
If  it  be  summer,  the  house  is  cooler  than  the  out- 
doors; and  the  lowered  awnings  outside  the  win- 
dows and  the  dropped  screens  on  the  porches,  tem- 
per the  indoor  light  to  a  restful  half-light.  Opened 

*  Some  dealers  may  quote,  you  eleven,  but  you  will  find  that  moans 
not  the  128  cubic  feet  of  the  arithmetic  book,  but  a  96-foot  cord — 
a  California  speciality,  acquaintance  with  which  is  part  of  the 
tenderfoot's  education. 

238 


RESIDENCE  IN  THE  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE 

doorways  and  windows  admit  the  breeze  with  its 
manifold  fragrances  from  hedge  and  garden,  while 
complete  screening  throughout  the  house  keeps  out 
insect  life.  Rugs  and  couch-covers  in  cheerful  col- 
ors, Oriental  or  Indian;  Indian  ollas  of  quaint  de- 
signs for  flower  holders ;  Indian  baskets  set  here  and 
there  for  receptacles  or  hung  on  walls  as  plaques; 
pictures  of  characteristic  California  scenes,  such  as 
snow-capped  mountains,  cool  canon  depths,  the 
crumbling  Missions— all  such  things  help  to  give  the 
unconventional  touch  which  goes  with  bungalow 
living. 

While  the  delight  of  bungalow  life  in  California 
is  largely  attributable  to  the  quality  of  climate 
which,  winter  and  summer,  calls  you  out  of  doors,  or 
failing  that,  to  open  wide  your  casements  and  invite 
outdoors  in,  a  generous  share  of  credit  is  due  also 
to  good  architects  and  first-class  builders  who  have 
brought  into  the  country  the  best  ideas  of  their  art 
and  craft.  There  is  not  a  facility  to  comfortable 
living  known  to  the  world  that  may  not  be  found 
in  the  better  class  of  California  towns,  and  at  rea- 
sonable rates.  Electricity  for  lighting,  electrical  de- 
vices for  cooking  or  for  otherwise  lightening  labor, 
gas-ranges  and  grates,  and  gas  water-heaters,  the 
most  approved  plumbing,  telephone  connections 
both  local  and  long-distance — these  are  matters  of 
course  in  every  modern  bungalow  in  California 
tourist  towns. 

The  cost  of  bungalows  has  been  reduced  to  a 

239 


UNDEE  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

formula.  As  a  rule  of  thumb,  for  a  one-story, 
modern,  frame  structure,  you  can  figure  on  a  dollar 
and  a  half  per  square  foot  of  ground  covered  hy  it, 
and  you  will  not  be  far  astray.  This  applies  to  what 
may  be  called  the  "bungalow  of  commerce''  built  by 
a  contractor  to  sell ;  but  it  covers  good  work  and  is 
the  sort  that  the  average  family  of  four  or  five  buys 
with  from  $2,000  to  $3,000,  exclusive  of  the  lot  which 
may  be  anywhere  from  $500  up,  according  to  the  lo- 
cality. 

To  the  family  of  moderate  means  a  very  appeal- 
ing feature  of  bungalow  life  is  the  ease  of  keeping 
house  which  it  offers,  and  the  independence  of  serv- 
ants. The  servant  problem,  indeed,  has  been  solved 
in  Gordian-knot  fashion  by  doing  away  with  the 
servant;  for,  given  a  reasonable  degree  of  strength 
and  skill  on  the  part  of  the  womankind  of  the  house- 
hold, a  servant  is  not  needed,  and  in  the  democratic 
West  no  lady  loses  caste  by  the  fact  of  doing  her 
own  housework.  As  there  are  in  most  bungalows  but 
one  floor  and  few  rooms,  the  housewife 's  daily  steps 
are  reduced  to  a  minimum.  The  kitchen  is  a  com- 
pact little  room,  airy  and  light,  and  provided  with 
various  ingenious  modern  helps  to  lessen  labor. 
Adjoining  is  the  invariable  screen-porch  where  are 
laundry-tubs,  ice-box,  cooling  closets,  et  cetera,  the 
cooling  closet  being  a  built-in  cupboard  with  open, 
screened  bottom  and  top  and  perforated  shelves 
through  which  a  vertical  current  of  air  ascends  con- 
tinually from  under  the  house  to  roof,  and,  in  this 

240 


EESIDENCE  IN  THE  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE 

land  of  cold  nights,  makes  the  housekeeper  measur- 
ably independent  of  ice  even  in  summer.  Gas  is 
the  usual  fuel  for  cooking,  though  some  bungalows 
have  electric  kitchens,  and  by  it  the  work  of  prepar- 
ing meals  is  reduced  to  as  little  as  may  be.  If  the 
housewife  desires  to  be  spared  the  labor  of  clean- 
ing, which  is  necessary  much  less  frequently  in  the 
relatively  non-humid  climate  of  California  than  on 
the  Atlantic  slope,  she  may  arrange  to  have  some 
one  come  from  outside  at  stated  times  and  take  this 
off  her  hands.  Once  in  two  weeks  may  be  enough. 
Besides  white  women,  Japanese  "boys"  make  a 
business  of  such  work  at  about  two  dollars  and  a  half 
per  day,  or  one  dollar  and  a  half  per  half-day,  and 
latterly  some  white  men  have  taken  up  this  voca- 
tion. Other  things  being  equal,  men  are  prefer- 
able to  women  for  the  business,  because  of  the 
physical  strength  needed  for  handling  and  beating 
heavy  rugs,  scrubbing  floors  and  washing  windows. 
As  to  heating  the  bungalow,  the  mildness  of  the 
climate  reduces  this  to  a  comparatively  simple  mat- 
ter. Even  in  winter,  unless  during  an  abnormal 
cold-snap  or  on  rainy  days,  fire  cannot  be  regarded 
as  a  necessity,  except  in  the  early  morning  and  dur- 
ing the  evenings.  One  wood-fire  in  the  living-room 
fireplace  is,  therefore,  all  the  average  family  need 
count  on,  as  bathroom  and  sleeping-chambers  are 
customarily  supplied  either  with  gas  heaters,  or  a 
certain  kind  of  little  sheet-iron  stove  with  a  furious 
draught,  that  can  be  made  red  hot  with  twisted 

241 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFOKNIA 

newspapers  in  a  few  minutes.  This  is  the  native 
Calif ornian's  favorite  heating  arrangement,  and  his 
pet  economy  is  saving  the  newspapers  all  summer 
and  autumn  to  twist  up  for  winter  fuel.  These  ob- 
servations, however,  are  based  on  the  fact  that  Cali- 
fornians  as  a  class  are  not  prone  to  living  in  rooms 
of  as  high  a  temperature  by  several  degrees,  as  are 
Easterners;  and  if  one's  health  or  comfort  demands 
a  uniformly  warm  house  in  winter — say  70  degrees 
Fahrenheit  or  over— a  heater  had  best  be  installed 
in  the  cellar  for  use  on  occasion.  Many  modern 
bungalows  are  provided  with  such  heaters  of  vari- 
ous sorts,  but  all  are  rather  lilliputian  affairs  from 
an  Eastern  or  Middle  West  point  of  view,  yet  en- 
tirely sufficient  for  the  work  required  of  them. 
The  fuel  is  frequently  gas,  but  oftener  a  fuel-petro- 
leum locally  known  as  "distillate." 

As  to  the  cost  of  bungalow  living  in  California,  it 
is  pretty  much  what  one  chooses  to  make  it.  Our 
own  small  family  of  sometimes  four,  and  sometimes 
three,  found  by  experience  that  we  lived  in  Pasa- 
dena for  about  one-third  less  than  in  Philadelphia 
and  lived  better;  and  we  could  have  reduced  the 
cost  still  further  in  Pasadena  had  we  chosen  to  work 
our  kitchen  garden  as  we  might  have  done  instead' 
of  only  playing  with  it.  Our  Pasadena  account, 
however,  was  minus  a  house-servant's  contribution 
to  the  expense  of  living,  while  in  Philadelphia  we 
had  kept  a  maid.  On  the  other  hand,  we  paid  in 
Pasadena  for  the  weekly  cleaning — half-a-day — and 

242 


RESIDENCE  IN  THE  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE 

put  out  all  the  laundry.  The  difference  on  wage- 
account  to  the  debit  of  Philadelphia  was  about  what 
the  maid  ate,  broke  and  wasted,  which  is  left  to  the 
reader  to  compute.  In  our  bungalow  experience  we 
have  had  more  elbow-room  and  enjoyed  some  ameni- 
ties, particularly  as  to  the  table,  that  in  the  East  we 
had  perforce  to  leave  to  the  millionaires— among 
these  the  luxury  of  entertaining  our  Eastern  visi- 
tors in  January  on  green  peas,  fresh  tomatoes, 
strawberries  and  luscious  Japanese  persimmons, 
from  our  own  garden  or  from  just  around  the  cor- 
ner! 

Fresh  fruits,  nuts  and  vegetables  should  form, 
and  among  the  wise  ones  do  form,  a  relatively 
larger  part  of  the  diet  in  a  mild  climate  like  Cali- 
fornia's than  in  the  more  rigorous  East,  and  they 
offer  the  best  chance — and  a  very  delicious  one — 
for  keeping  down  the  cost  of  the  table.  Particu- 
larly is  the  list  of  native  grown  fruits  an  extended 
one  in  California.  Oranges,  grape-fruit,  lemons, 
apricots,  nectarines,  plums,  quinces,  apples,  pears, 
cherries,  peaches,  figs,  loquats,  pomegranates,  the 
huge,  non-astringent  Japanese  persimmons,  a  dozen 
or  more  varieties  of  grapes  of  the  meaty  Old- World 
stock — the  very  reading  of  these  makes  one's  mouth 
water — to  say  nothing  of  berries  and  melons  galore 
and  an  aristocratic  little  list  of  tropical  and  semi- 
tropical  fruits  which  are  still  experiments  in  Cali- 
fornia, but  some  of  which,  like  the  avocado  and  the 
feijoa,  will  doubtless  be  prevailed  upon  to  stay.  If 

243 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

you  have  a  fair-sized  city  lot  with  your  bungalow, 
you  can  raise  quite  a  number  of  these  good  things 
on  it;  but  you  need  at  least  an  acre  to  get  much 
satisfaction  out  of  growing  a  variety  of  fruit,  as 
the  birds  of  California  figure  on  getting  a  large 
share  of  their  living  out  of  the  tenderfoot's  garden- 
ing undertakings,  and  are  as  merciless  as  the  tax- 
gatherer.  But  even  if  you  do  not  raise  your  own 
fruits  and  vegetables,  they  are  cheaply  bought  in 
their  various  seasons  from  the  green-grocers  and 
the  Chinese  hucksters,  or  at  the  ranches  as  you  drive 
about  the  country. 

In  speaking  of  bungalow  life  a  word  is  in  order 
about  the  part  the  porches  play.  Like  many  other 
people,  we  made  an  outdoor  living-and-dining-room 
of  our  rear  veranda,  a  quiet,  retired  spot  on  whose 
roof  and  sides  were  climbing  roses  and  honey- 
suckles that  hid  us  from  our  neighbors.  From  this 
flowery  bower  we  looked  out  upon  our  little  60  x  90 
foot  garden,  and  beyond  to  the  Sierra  Madre,  witb 
its  lovely  lights  and  shadows  and  exquisite  colors  in 
the  evening  glow.  Old-hickory  chairs  and  settees, 
with  a  similar  table  or  two,  indifferent  to  the 
weather,  make  a  suitable  furnishing  to  such  a  nook. 
We  added,  in  our  case,  the  sewing-machine,  and  all 
through  the  long  dry  season — it  lasts  from  May 
sometimes  till  November— it  stood  ready  to  hand, 
giving  the  porch  a  pleasant  touch  of  domesticity 
which  a  low  work-table,  piled  high  every  week  with 
the  family  mending,  served  to  complete.  Here  the 

244 


EESIDENCE  IN  THE  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE 
daily  mail  was  brought  and  discussed,  the  news- 
paper read,  letters  written,  the  vegetables  prepared 
for  dinner,  callers  entertained;  and  here  often  our 
meals  were  served  not  only  in  summer,  but  on  sunny 
days  in  winter.  We  began  this  practise  impulsively 
as  a  sort  of  frolic— we  were  fond  of  picnicking— but 
it  proved  so  delightful  and  satisfying  that  it  soon 
became  a  habit.  Dished  up  on  hot  plates  in  the 
kitchen  and  brought  quickly  to  the  veranda  on  a 
tray,  the  eatables  suffered  nothing  from  their  out- 
ing, while  appetite  and  digestion  throve ;  for  we  did 
not  allow  the  meals  to  degenerate  into  "  pick-up 
snacks"  but  kept  them  on  the  plane  of  serious  re- 
pasts. An  alcohol  lamp  on  a  side-table  served  for 
the  heating  of  water,  and  the  warming  up  of  small 
matters.  The  extension  of  electrical  connections 
to  the  porch  simplifies  proceedings  still  further. 

The  vogue  of  the  bungalow  with  the  winter  so- 
journers  in  tourist  towns  has  led  to  the  establish- 
ment recently  of  so-called  "bungalow-courts" — that 
is,  the  assembling  of  a  number  of  bungalows  upon  a 
tract  of  ground  equal  to  two  or  three  city  lots  and 
ranged  about  a  central  open  space  devoted  to  lawn, 
flower-beds  and  a  common  walk.  The  buildings, 
while  set  rather  closely  side  by  side,  are  still  sepa- 
rated by  a  space  ample  to  admit  an  abundance  of 
light.  The  idea  is  really  that  of  the  Spanish  house 
built  around  a  patio,  only  in  this  case  entire,  dis- 
connected dwellings,  are  the  unit  in  the  make-up,  in- 
stead of  rooms.  A  dozen  or  more  may  be  comfort- 

245 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

ably  built  on  the  land  of  two  city  lots.  They  are 
rented,  usually  furnished,  for  the  season,  or  for  the 
year  if  desired,  on  a  basis  which  provides  free  water 
and  electric  light,  the  fuel  gas  consumed  being  paid 
for  by  the  tenant.  The  grounds  are  cared  for  by 
the  landlord.  The  rental  rate  of  such  bungalows 
varies  greatly  according  to  number  of  rooms,  loca- 
tion and  term  of  lease.  In  Pasadena,  where  they 
are  now  rather  numerous,  few  are  offered  furnished 
under  $45  monthly  for  the  winter,  while  some  are 
as  high  as  $200  per  month.  In  summer  these  rates 
are  cut  in  two. 


II.    MAKING  A  LIVING  IN  THE  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE 

We  were  sitting  on  the  porch  after  a  good 
luncheon,  enjoying  the  warmth  of  a  sunny,  win- 
ter midday.  There  was  a  fragrance  of  daphne 
blossoms  in  the  air,  and  the  music  of  humming  bees. 
Beyond  the  lower  end  of  the  garden  where  the  young 
folks  were  playing  tennis  in  white  flannels  was  an 
orange-grove  hanging  heavy  with  its  Hesperian 
fruit,  and  beyond  that  across  the  green  mesa  rose 
the  majestic  range  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  its  crest 
white  with  snow.  Now  and  then  the  ecstatic  note 
of  the  meadow-lark  floated  down  the  air,  and  on 
every  side  mocking-birds  were  whistling.  Automo- 
biles filled  with  pleasure-seekers  whirred  by  on  the 
street,  and  occasionally  a  horseback  party  of  tanned 

246 


RESIDENCE  IN  THE  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE 

young  men  and  girls  bare  of  arm  and  head  cantered 
toward  the  mountains. 

"Another  blizzard  back  East,"  chuckled  the  old 
Calif ornian  from  the  midst  of  his  newspaper;  " little 
old  New  York's  street  car  service  paralyzed,  mer- 
cury two  below  zero,  and  wind  forty  miles  an  hour." 

Your  Californian  can  never  resist  gloating  over 
the  eccentricities  of  the  Eastern  climate,  as  though 
the  relative  excellence  of  California  were  his  own 
manufacture. 

But  my  thoughts  were  on  the  scene  before  me. 

"This  is  certainly  the  place  to  enjoy  life,"  I  ob- 
served after  a  while,  "if  you  have  your  pockets  full 
of  money  and  can  stay  away  from  business  as  long 
as  you  like ;  but  how  about  the  poor  chap  with  an  in- 
valid wife  and  a  bunch  of  children,  or  the  man  with 
weak  lungs  and  a  crippled  bank  account,  shipped 
out  here  when  the  back-East  doctor  is  tired  of  his 
case,  to  live  an  outdoor  life  and  build  up — in  other 
words,  the  fellows  who  have  to  make  a  living  while 
they  live  in  California — what  sort  of  a  chance  have 
they  here  f ' ' 

"That  was  my  case,"  fenced  the  Old  Californian, 
"I  had  weak  lungs  and  went  to  ranching  on  a  place 
that  couldn't  be  seen  for  the  mortgage.  Look  at  me 
now.  I'm  strong  as  a  bull  and  live  on  Easy 
Street." 

"I  know,"  I  pursued,  "but  that  was  thirty-odd 
years  ago  when  you  came  and  things  were  different 
then.  Any  land  then  was  high  at  a  hundred  dollars 

247 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

an  acre,  and  by  dumb  luck  you  picked  out  your  bit 
of  acreage  where  the  fates  had  decreed  a  tourist 
town  to  come.  You  dried  peaches  and  apricots, 
sold  greasewood  and  peddled  honey,  kept  a  cow  or 
two  on  the  scrub  of  the  foothills,  and  lived,  as  be- 
came a  pioneer,  on  the  dried  fruits  of  the  land ;  and 
your  wife  made  you  hold  on  when  you  wanted  to 
make  a  fool  of  yourself  and  sell  out  after  three  dry 
years ;  and  then  when  the  town  took  to  growing  and 
was  crowding  you,  you  let  go  on  the  basis  of  town- 
lots  at  twenty  dollars  a  front  foot." 

"The  fellow  that  bought  it,  doubled  his  money  in 
two  years,"  put  in  the  Old  Calif ornian  fiercely. 

"That  isn't  what  I'm  talking  about,"  I  went  on, 
"if  you're  going  to  speculate  in  real  estate,  you 
might  as  well  make  it  oil  or  grain  or  stocks  and 
operate  in  New  York  or  Chicago.  Things  go  down 
as  well  as  up,  and  men  with  limited  means  are  often 
swamped  over  night.  But  you  know  what  I  mean, 
something  that  will  make  an  income  to  keep  the 
family  in  bread  and  meat  and  shoes.  Take  a  spe- 
cific case,  there's  Ned  Thompson's  son,  I  hear  he's 
in  bad  shape  physically  and  is  coming  to  California 
from  Boston.  He's  thirty-two  years  old  and  his  as- 
sets are  a  wife  and  three  children,  a  college  educa- 
tion, eight  years'  clerical  experience  in  a  wholesale 
dry-goods  house,  and  a  couple  of  thousand  dollars. 
What  can  California  do  for  him?" 

The  Old  Californian  bit  the  end  of  a  cigar  irrita- 
bly before  he  replied : 

248 


RESIDENCE  IN  THE  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE 

"Hang  your  specific  cases,  it's  a  whole  lot  easier 
to  talk  in  generalities.  Well,  I  tell  you;  a  lot  de- 
pends upon  the  man.  Some  men  will  pick  up  a  good 
living  on  the  Sahara  Desert,  and  others  are  just 
plum  no  good  in  a  land  of  flowing  milk  and  honey. 
I  don't  know  what  sort  of  stuff  young  Thompson's 
made  of,  but  it's  a  good  thing  he  has  a  little  money. 
He'll  need  it  to  live  on  while  he's  looking  around  for 
'congenial  occupation';  for  that's  what  he'll  be 
after,  being  town-bred.  He  won't  find  it,  though. 
He'd  better  start  right  in  by  cutting  'congeniality* 
out  of  his  vocabulary  and  substitute  willingness  to 
take  what  he  can  get.  This  is  a  young  country  and 
mighty  democratic.  There  are  no  social  distinctions 
in  business;  everything  honest  is  respectable;  but 
it  is  also  a  very  different  country  from  the  East  in 
its  climate  and  in  the  way  things  are  done,  and  the 
first  year  of  a  new-comer's  life  here  should  be 
largely  educational,  getting  acquainted  with  these 
novel  conditions.  The  sort  of  people  that  California 
wants,  more  than  any  other,  is  the  farmer  sort,  the 
developers  of  the  soil.  The  State  is  stocked  up  with 
mechanics  and  top-heavy  with  the  genteel  vocations 
— lawyers,  doctors,  merchants,  bookkeepers,  clerks, 
brokers  and  land  speculators,  and  purveyors  of  one 
sort  and  another  to  the  rich  tourists.  Being  in  need 
of  an  outdoor  life,  of  course,  young  Thompson  might 
get  a  job  as  street-car  conductor — lots  of  college 
graduates  get  the  air  that  way— or  he  might  drive 
a  laundry-wagon  if  he  wasn't  too  proud,  or  take  care 

249 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

of  people's  gardens.  My  neighbor  across  the  way 
has  a  weak-chested  Methodist  ex-preacher  to  mow 
his  lawn  and  trim  his  vines.  Or  he  might  hire  as  a 
chauffeur  if  he  knows  anything  about  motor-cars,  or 
nerve  enough  to  learn  at  the  owner's  expense.  But 
jobs  like  these  are  not  to  be  picked  up  the  day  after 
arrival,  but  will  probably  have  to  be  waited  for  for 
months ;  and  meantime  he  might  peddle  patent  mops 
or  soap  or  the  latest  breakfast-food  from  door  to 
door  as  many  a  fine  fellow  is  doing  to-day  in  this 
Golden  State,  though  I  don't  recommend  it,  except 
for  the  exercise.  Then  again,  as  long  as  he  has  a 
bit  of  money  he  might  buy  a  carriage  and  a  pair  of 
horses,  or  a  last  year's  automobile,  and  drive  tour- 
ists about,  though  that's  a  gamble  to  make  expenses, 
for  there's  lots  of  competition;  but  one  gritty 
'lunger'  that  I  knew,  did  do  that  and  studied  law 
while  waiting  for  patrons,  and  made  good.  You  see 
it's  largely  a  question  of  the  man  after  all. 

"But  it  seems  to  me  if  I  were  Thompson,  suppos- 
ing he  is  so  as  to  do  ordinary  light  work  and  has 
horse-sense,  I'd  take  one  thousand  dollars  of  my 
two,  and  buy  a  half -acre  of  land,  or  more  if  I  could 
get  it  for  the  money,  with  a  little  old  California 
house  on  it,  on  the  outskirts  of  a  live  town.  There 
are  lots  of  places  of  that  sort,  the  house  not  worth 
figuring  in  the  price,  but  yet  good  enough  to  be 
patched  up  at  a  light  expense  so  as  to  last  quite  a 
while.  Get  a  place  if  possible — and  it  won't  be 
hard — that  has  a  few  established  fruit  trees  on  it, 

250 


KESIDENCE  IN  THE  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE 

peaches,  apricots,  figs,  better  still  if  there  is  an  Eng- 
lish-walnut tree  or  two  and  some  grapes,  and  start 
a  vegetable  garden.  There  may  be  a  little  sale  from 
these  crops,  but  even  if  there  isn't,  they  will  count 
materially  in  feeding  the  family.  Then  I'd  go  in 
for  raising  chickens  for  eggs — there's  no  end  of  a 
market  for  eggs,  and  the  young  roosters  can  be 
eaten  or  sold.  A  clerk's  experience,  like  Thomp- 
son's, is  a  poor  start  in  the  chicken  business,  but 
I'm  supposing  he  has  horse-sense,  and  I'm  giving 
Mrs.  Thompson  credit  for  being  no  fool,  and  then 
there's  a  thousand  dollars  reserve  fund,  isn't  there? 
Of  course,  there'll  be  all  sorts  of  mistakes  made  and 
a  dozen  times  in  the  year  the  bottom  will  seem  to 
be  dropping  out;  but  knowledge  comes  that  way, 
and  then  the  neighbors  will  help  some  in  bad  emer- 
gencies; and  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  at  the  end 
of  a  year  the  bank  reserve  had  not  been  much  de- 
pleted, though  it  is  to  be  expected  that  it  would 
have  shrunk  some.  The  second  year  ought  to  be 
better,  in  the  light  of  what  had  been  learned  not 
only  about  the  innate  depravity  of  chickens,  but 
about  the  requirements  of  the  fruit  and  vegetables 
— the  spraying,  the  irrigation,  the  cultivating, 
trapping  gophers  and  one  doggoned  thing  and  an- 
other. But  the  thing  especially  to  guard  against  in 
the  second,  and  third,  and  fourth  and  every  suc- 
ceeding year,  is  the  natural  conceit  of  a  man  that 
he  knows  it  all,  for  there  is  never  a  season  in  Cali- 
fornia since  I've  been  here  that  wasn't  different 

251 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

in  some  way  from  the  others,  and  that  meant  some- 
thing new  to  learn  each  year." 

"But  I  don't  see  that  there  is  much  of  a  fortune 
in  a  half -acre  and  a  little  old  shack  of  a  house, "  said 
I,  " unless  you  strike  oil  in  the  garden. " 

"Well  maybe  you  will,"  resumed  the  Old  Cali- 
fornian  with  the  cordial  optimism  of  his  kind. 
"You've  seen  derricks  in  peoples'  forty-foot  lots  in 
Los  Angeles,  haven't  you?  And  I'm  told  that  some 
places  have  pretty  fair  placer-mining  in  the  back 
yard.  However,  I'm  not  figuring  on  that  for 
Thompson;  but  if  you'll  remember,  I  said  he  was 
to  buy  on  the  outskirts  of  a  live  town.  "Well,  I  think 
after  he  has  scratched  along  with  Mrs.  Thompson's 
good  help  for  three  or  four  years  in  the  way  I  have 
sketched  out,  that  little  ranch  of  his  will  find  itself 
nearer  town  than  when  he  bought,  and  will  conse- 
quently be  worth  more  money,  maybe  two  or  three 
thousand  dollars ;  besides,  he  has  learned  some  gen- 
eral principles  that  will  make  it  worth  his  while,  if 
he  wants  to,  to  sell  out  and  buy  a  little  larger  place 
where  he  can  spread  himself  some  and  do  some  real 
ranching  if  he  likes  it — deciduous  fruits  for  drying, 
olives,  walnuts,  almonds,  dairying;  or  alfalfa  or 
bees — they  are  the  lazy  man's  jobs;  citrus  fruits,  if 
he  will,  but  they  run  into  money,  the  land  is  so  high, 
twelve  or  fifteen  hundred  an  acre  with  bearing  trees. 
But  whatever  he  does,  be  sure  he  keeps  the  place 
small  enough  to  run  it  himself  with  his  family's  aid, 
for  ranch  laborers  will  eat  up  any  profits  until  he 

252 


UNDEE  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

to  take  any  chances.  We  had  to,  when  I  blew  in 
here  thirty  years  ago,  but  fortunately  things  are 
different  now,  and  there  are  responsible  title  com- 
panies just  as  in  the  East,  who  will  give  you  a  clean 
certificate  of  title  and  back  it  up  with  their  guaran- 
tee. You  tell  Thompson  to  be  sure  to  get  that  be- 
fore he  pays  out  his  cash.  And  then  as  to  water — " 

The  Old  Californian  paused  and  looked  remini- 
scent. 

"Well,  sir,  I  guess  the  books  of  the  Recording 
Angel  show  more  liens  entered  up  against  Cali- 
fornians'  title  to  glory  through  lying  about  water 
than  almost  any  other  one  count,  unless  it's  frost. 
It  seems  as  though  when  it  comes  to  selling  a  bit  of 
land  a  fellow  is  just  obliged  to  romance  a  little  about 
the  purity  and  unfailing  character  of  the  water  sup- 
ply; and  the  sources  of  water  being  hidden  away 
underground  from  mortal  ken,  what's  the  stranger 
going  to  do?  It's  a  hard  nut  for  him  to  crack,  and 
that's  where  a  year  or  two's  experience  in  the  coun- 
try before  he  buys  may  save  him  a  lot  of  trouble. 
Few  places  have  private  wells  as  in  the  East,  and 
if  they  have,  their  permanency  is  by  no  means  a 
sure  thing.  Water  is  bound  to  be  a  relatively  scarce 
article  in  a  country  where  the  rainfall  is,  roughly 
speaking,  but  half  what  it  is  on  the  Atlantic  sea- 
board, and  its  availability  so  clearly  sets  the  limits 
to  the  development  of  our  Coast  that  the  philan- 
thropic gentlemen  who  organize  trusts  and  monopo- 
lies to  keep  the  people  from  wasting  the  country's 

254 


KESIDENCE  IN  THE  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE 

resources,  long  ago  bought  up  pretty  much  all  the 
springs,  water-rights,  water-bearing  canons  and 
such  sources  of  supply,  and  created  water  com- 
panies. To  some  one  of  these  the  land  buyer  has 
to  look  for  his  supply  and  take  what  they  give  him, 
subject  to  certain  laws  of  control  which  the  Govern- 
ment imposes  on  them.  Some  of  these  companies 
are  first-class,  some  passable,  and  some  so  weak  that 
their  supplies  pinch  out  after  a  winter  of  deficient 
rainfall.  I  don't  know  any  better  way  for  the  new- 
comer to  do  than  to  inquire  of  the  honestest  looking 
residents  what  their  experience  has  been,  particu- 
larly in  dry  years,  and  see  how  what  they  tell  checks 
up  with  the  looks  of  vegetation.  If  the  neighbor- 
hood is  strong  on  grapes,  apricots,  olives  and  such 
non-irrigated  crops,  it  is  pretty  safe  to  conclude  that 
there's  no  extra  water  running  loose  in  that  part  of 
the  earth.  Then  if  he  is  satisfied  with  the  investi- 
gation, let  him  be  sure  his  purchase  papers  cover 
his  right  to  the  water.  And  oh,  yes,  then  there's  the 
little  matter  of  alkali.  That's  the  very  deuce  and 
all  in  some  localities,  and  the  deceiving  thing  about 
it  is  that  it  is  thick  in  some  land  and  right  along- 
side of  it  the  ground  mayn't  have  a  trace  of  it.  I  can 
show  you  as  pretty  a  bit  of  land  as  you  want  to  see, 
that  five  hundred  dollars  an  acre  wouldn't  touch, 
and  right  across  the  road  is  a  bunch  of  acreage  that's 
not  worth  a  tinker's  cuss — just  alkali.  Yet  both 
tracts  are  part  of  one  ranch  and  originally  sold  at 
the  same  price.  And  of  course,  there's  hardpan  un- 

255 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

der  some  soil,  which  is  bad  for  deep-rooted  crops 
or  trees — that  ought  to  be  looked  out  for. 

"But,  sir,  you  can  bet  your  hat  that  if  the  title  is 
flawless  and  there's  plenty  of  water,  and  the  land 
isn't  alkali  or  hardpan,  the  boy  stands  to  double  his 
money  by  the  time  the  Panama  Canal  is  floating 
ships  through." 

And  so  did  the  Old  Californian  come  around  to 
the  essence  of  the  money-maker's  hope  in  the 
California  philosophy — the  expected  rise  in  land 
values. 


III.     SOME  CALIFORNIANISMS 

While  the  settlement  of  our  Pacific  slope  by 
Americans  is  of  too  recent  a  date  for  any  marked 
peculiarity  of  speech  to  have  yet  fastened  itself 
upon  the  Californian  in  the  sense  that  it  has  upon 
the  New  Englander  or  the  Southerner  of  the  Atlan- 
tic seaboard,  the  newcomer  does  not  travel  far  in 
California  before  encountering  words  and  expres- 
sions that  are  to  him  either  absolutely  strange  or 
used  in  a  novel  sense. 

"New  Cots  Two  Bits  a  Box,"  for  instance,  posted 
in  a  green-grocer's  window,  is  so  thoroughly  unin- 
telligible to  the  average  Easterner  as  to  read  like  a 
foreign  language,  though  to  the  Californian  it  is  a 
perfectly  plain  advertisement  of  apricots  at  twenty- 
five  cents  a  box.  To  be  able  to  reckon  in  "bits"  is 
a  serviceable  accomplishment  for  the  traveler  in 

256 


EESIDENCE  IN  THE  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE 

California  byways  to  acquire;  for  while  its  use  is 
by  no  means  universal  and  the  coin  itself  went  out 
with  the  Spaniards,  there  is  a  certain  local  pride  in 
keeping  the  word  going,  and  one  meets  it  constantly. 
It  is  employed  only  in  multiples  of  two,  as  two  bits, 
twenty-five  cents;  four  bits,  fifty  cents;  six  bits,  sev- 
enty-five cents. 

1  '  High  fog, ' '  too,  is  usually  an  enigma.  The  tour- 
ist comes  down  to  breakfast  and  finds  the  sky  over- 
cast. 

"Cloudy  day,"  he  remarks  to  the  waiter,  "is  it 
going  to  rain?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  replies  the  man  of  the  napkin,  if 
he  is  experienced,  "only  a  high  fog." 

As  the  stranger  observes  no  evidence  of  fog,  only 
a  gray  sky,  he  does  not  see  the  appropriateness  of 
the  term,  nor  why  the  trouble  is  not  plain  cloudi- 
ness. But  the  Californian,  in  some  strange  man- 
ner, knows  the  difference,  and  about  ten  o'clock,  the 
fog,  so  high  that  it  seemed  something  else,  has 
floated  out  to  sea,,  and  the  sun  shines  in  a  cloudless 
blue  sky. 

Then  there  is  the  word  "pack."  Anybody  any- 
where in  the  United  States,  knows  how  to  pack  a  box 
or  a  trunk,  but  we  had  to  come  to  California  to  learn 
how  to  pack  a  piece  of  string;  for  on  this  western 
rim  of  our  continent,  half  the  time  the  word  means 
"to  carry."  Of  course  you  have  to  pack  your  goods 
upon  your  burro,  but  then,  too,  the  burro  packs  the 
pack.  An  old  mountaineer  of  whom  we  had  occasion 

257 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

once  to  borrow  a  penknife,  looked  at  it  affectionately 
as  he  returned  it  to  his  pocket,  and  remarked,  "You 
bet  it's  a  good  knife;  I've  packed  it  around  with  me 
for  nigh  on  to  twenty  years." 

Another  interesting  localism  is  the  verb  "to 
rustle. ' '  Originating  on  the  cattle  ranges,  where  in 
the  old,  lawless  "bad  man"  days  it  meant  "to 
steal,"  it  has  acquired  in  these  piping  times  of  peace 
the  innocent  significance  of  "to  gather."  Thus 
among  the  camper's  first  duties,  is  to  rustle  his  fire- 
wood. He  also  "prospects"  for  water  and  if  in  his 
search  his  foot  slips  on  a  "slick"  rock,  it  is  what  is 
to  be  expected,  for  your  thorough-going  Californian 
has  small  use  for  the  adjective  "smooth."  In  the 
camp  supplies  will  be  "spuds"  for  potatoes,  and 
quite  likely  "frijoles"  (pronounced  fre-ho-les)  for 
beans.  For  saddle-bags  your  packer  will  have 
"kyacks"  on  the  donkeys  or  alforjas  (alfor-has), 
and  of  course  you  never  travel  a  path,  but  always  a 
"trail." 

The  principal  outer  influence  on  California  speech 
has  naturally  been  Spanish.  Some  of  these  Span- 
ish terms  familiar  as  words  to  the  new  arrival  from 
the  East,  will  surprise  him  in  their  application. 
"Corral"  for  instance,  seems  natural  enough  to 
cattle  enclosures  each  covering  an  acre  or  two,  as  he 
saw  them  from  the  car  windows  when  he  crossed  the 
plains;  but  when  his  California  hostess  who  keeps 
her  pet  Persian  cat  outdoors  in  a  wire  cage  a  few 
feet  square  calls  that  a  corral,  it  strikes  him  oddly. 

258 


RESIDENCE  IN  THE  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE 

Canon,  too,  which  he  associates  with  fearful  Rocky 
Mountain  gorges,  loses  some  of  its  majesty  when  ap- 
plied to  any  small  ravine  as  it  may  be  in  California. 
The  word  "  ranch "  has  possibilities  he  never 
dreamed  of,  for  it  may  describe  property  anywhere 
in  extent  from  half  an  acre  to  three  hundred  thou- 
sand ;  and  while  it  may  be  a  grain  ranch  or  a  cattle 
ranch,  it  may  also  be  a  chicken  ranch  or  a  bee  ranch 
or  a  fruit  ranch — but  never  a  l l  farm. ' '  Farmers,  in 
the  Golden  State,  are  "  ranchers. "  But  then,  if  you 
have  the  privilege  of  making  the  acquaintance  of 
some  Spanish  landed  proprietor,  do  not  commit  the 
mistake  of  referring  to  his  estate  as  a  "rancheria" 
(with  the  accent  on  the  i),  for  in  Southern  California 
this  word  means  an  Indian  village. 

In  traveling  through  the  country,  one  encounters 
in  every  day  speech  many  of  these  Spanish  words 
more  or  less  modified.  Mesa  for  tableland  is  uni- 
versal, and  chaparral  for  a  shrubby  thicket  is  classic, 
though  personally  we  have  more  often  heard  an- 
other word,  chamise,  applied  to  the  same  thing. 
This  last  term — pronounced  chameeze — is  also  given 
to  the  common  greasewood  of  the  mountains  and 
foothills,  known  to  botanists  as  adenostoma  fascicu- 
latum.  Cienaga  is  a  good  Spanish  survival  mean- 
ing any  wet,  marshy  place,  and  potrero  is  occasion- 
ally heard  applied  to  wild  pasture  land.  Rincon  is 
where  two  hills  come  obliquely  together  forming  a 
corner  or  nook.  A  shallow  valley  is  Canada  (pro- 
nounced can-yah'-da),  but  this  lingers  now  princi- 

259 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

pally  as  a  geographical  designation,  and  it  is  doubt- 
ful if  many  white  Californians  know  what  it  signi- 
fies. Arroyo  is  a  commonly  used  Spanish  word  for 
the  channel  of  a  stream,  and  the  bulrush — of  which 
thickets  are  found  on  the  borders  of  marshes  and 
certain  rivers — is  quite  commonly  called  tule  (two 
syllables).  The  earthen  jar  that  contains  drinking 
water  and  stands  often  wrapped  in  dampened  bur- 
lap in  some  shady  corner  in  the  old  country  houses, 
or  swings  from  a  beam,  is  an  olla  (pronounced  6-ya). 
The  swarthy  Mexican  laborers  in  conical  straw  hats 
who  work  industriously  on  the  railroads  in  Southern 
California  and  on  ranches,  are  popularly  known 
sometimes  as  "greasers,"  sometimes  as  cholos. 
Strictly  speaking  the  term  "cholo"  is  applicable 
only  to  a  half-breed,  lower  in  the  social  scale  than  the 
true  Mexican. 

Perhaps  of  all  Californianisms,  the  visitor  from 
the  Atlantic  seaboard  finds  "back  East"  the  most 
entertaining.  This  expression  takes  on  a  brand 
new  significance  once  the  Sierra  Nevada  is  crossed. 
When  keeping  house  in  Pasadena  one  summer,  we 
employed  a  woman  to  do  some  cleaning  for  us.  She 
was  talkative,  after  the  manner  of  her  kind,  and  had 
many  pleasant  words  for  the  abundance  and  lus- 
ciousness  of  the  fruit  in  California. 

"You  see,"  she  explained,  "I  come  from  back 
East,  and  we  don't  have  much  fruit  there." 

Recollections  of  Delaware  peaches,  New  Jersey 
berries,  York  State  grapes  and  New  England  apples, 

260 


RESIDENCE  IN  THE  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE 

rose  before  us,  and  we  demurred.  What  part  of  the 
East  had  she  come  from? 

"  Wyoming, "  she  remarked  ingenuously. 

This,  we  have  since  learned,  is  really  quite  far 
east,  when  Utah  and  Arizona  are  reckoned,  as  they 
are  from  the  California  standpoint,  in  eastern  terri- 
tory. As  for  Texas — that  is  "way  back." 


261 


CONCEKNING  THE  CLIMATE 

I.     THE  CLIMATE  IN  GENEKAL, 
(With  specific  reference  to  Southern  California.) 

OF  all  the  gifts  of  Nature  to  the  Golden  State, 
none  has  been  more  thoroughly  advertised  than 
its  climate.  Nevertheless— or,  shall  I  say,  therefore 
— there  is  nothing  about  which  the  transient  visitor 
is  apt  to  be  more  unreliably  informed  beforehand,  or 
to  carry  away  with  him  after  a  few  weeks'  visit, 
more  incomplete  notions.  One  needs  to  spend  at 
least  one  whole  year  on  the  Pacific  Slope  before  he 
is  in  position  to  speak  of  its  climate  in  any  compre- 
hensive way;  and  even  this  twelve-month's  experi- 
ence will  serve  only  to  outline  its  broader  features 
of  difference  from  the  climate  of  our  Atlantic  sea- 
board. With  increasing  years  of  residence  he  will 
find  need  to  revise  many  of  his  first  conclusions  and 
will  grow  more  and  more  cautious  about  positive 
generalizations.  The  old-time  Californian,  conse- 
quently, sets  many  hedges  about  his  speech  when 
the  inquiring  tourist  tries  to  pin  him  down  to  hard 
and  fast  declarations. 

"No,  they  ain't  no  sunstrokes  on  this  coast  ever," 

262 


CONCERNING  THE  CLIMATE 

I  hear  Uncle  William  Parkes  remark,  as  he  drives 
a  party  of  Eastern  school-teachers  in  his  public  car- 
riage around  Pasadena,  " leastways  you  needn't  fig- 
ger  on  'em.  To  be  sure,  last  summer  I  did  hear  tell 
of  a  couple  of  cholos  who  died  of  the  heat  in  a  ditch 
up  in  Fresno.  That  don't  often  happen,  though. 
Of  course  it  don't  rain  in  summer — that's  the  dry 
season  here,  you  know.  Leastwise,  that's  the  way 
it  gin 'ally  is ;  but  once  in  so  often,  things  gits  out  of 
joint  in  the  weather  outfit  up  above,  and  I  have 
known  quite  a  bit  of  rain  once  or  twice  in  July.  No, 
it  never  snows  in  Southern  California  you  bet,  ex- 
cept in  them  high  mountains — that  is,  it  ain't 
natural  fur  it  to  snow  in  the  valleys,  though  I  do 
mind,  now  you  speak  of  it,  that  one  winter  a  few 
years  ago  we  did  have  a  snowfall  in  Pasadena,  but 
it  melted  jest  as  fast  as  it  touched  the  ground,  and 
didn't  last  ten  minutes.  Thunder  storms?  No-o — 
well  I  do  mind  there  was  one  about  two  years  ago; 
but  there's  as  good  as  none.  When  does  the  rainy 
season  begin?  Well,  now,  I  couldn't  jest  say.  No- 
vember is  purty  safe  to  figger  on.  But  then  again, 
I  have  seen  right  smart  of  rain  in  September;  and 
other  years  they  ain't  been  none  till  purty  nigh 
Christmas.  You  see,  missus,  it's  a  bully  climate,  all 
right,  and  suits  me  right  down  to  the  ground  and 
every  right-minded  person,  but  when  it  comes  to 
drawing  up  a  constitootion  and  by-laws  fur  it  to  go 
by,  you'll  find  it  jumpin'  its  bail  now  and  then.  I 
knowed  a  lot  more  about  this  climate  the  first  year 

263 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

I  lived  in  it  than  I've  ever  knowed  since  and  I've 
been  here  go  in'  on  twenty-seven  year  this  spring." 

One  of  the  popular  misconceptions  about  the  Cali- 
fornia climate  is  that  it  is  without  seasons,  and 
thousands  who  annually  come  to  this  coast  for  a 
month  or  two's  outing  during  the  winter  or  spring 
months  return  to  their  Eastern  homes  in  the  belief 
that  the  whole  round  year  is  a  monotony  of  ethereal 
mildness  with  a  few  disagreeable  rains  thrown  in 
during  four  or  five  months  of  the  winter  and  spring. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  there  are  four  distinct  seasons 
in  California  just  as  in  the  East,  but  the  extremes 
of  the  East  are  absent  here.  Speaking  for  the  beau- 
tiful valleys  that  open  to  the  coast,  and  which  in- 
clude the  particular  parts  of  the  State  most  resorted 
to  by  travelers,  while  there  is  a  marked  freedom 
from  the  boisterousness  which  in  some  way  mars 
every  season  in  the  East,  there  is  yet  no  lack  of  dif- 
ference in  the  quality  of  the  months,  as  the  year 
moves  on  to  its  consummation. 

From  December  until  late  February,  for  instance, 
there  is  a  succession  of  snappy  mornings,  not  infre- 
quently with  frost  in  the  early  hours,  and  of  nights 
briskly  cold  that  give  a  special  zest  to  the  family 
gathering  about  the  evening  lamp  and  the  crackling 
hearth-firfe  with  pussy  asleep  before  it.  As  the  ver- 
nal equinox  approaches,  the  hillsides  and  mesas  don 
their  glorious  raiment  of  wild  flowers,  the  orange- 
blossoms  load  the  air  with  fragrance  and  the  decidu- 
ous fruit  trees  of  the  ranches — the  almonds,  the 

264 


CONCEENING  THE  CLIMATE 

peaches,  the  apricots,  the  plums — bourgeon  and 
flower;  the  rains  cease,  the  songs  of  returning  birds 
are  heard  on  fence-post  and  on  tree-top,  and  spring 
is  as  decidedly  spring  here  as  anywhere  on  earth. 
With  the  outgoing  of  May,  the  hills  and  valleylands 
begin  to  take  on  the  summer  brownness  that  marks 
the  resting  time  of  much  of  the  plant-world  in  this 
land  of  no  rain  from  May  till  November ;  the  nights, 
still  cool  but  not  so  cool  as  earlier  in  the  year,  are 
succeeded  by  days) that  during  the  middle  hours  are 
sufficiently  warm  to  lure  one  to  a  siesta  in  the  shade 
of  a  vine-covered  pergola,  or  in  a  patio  where  olean- 
ders cast  their  cooling  shadows  and  water  tinkles  in 
the  fountain.  This  is  pure  summer — absolutely  dis- 
tinct from  the  spring  that  preceded  it;  absolutely 
distinct,  also,  from  the  fall  which  follows  it,  when 
the  leaves  of  the  deciduous  trees  and  shrubs  take 
on  characteristic  autumnal  tints,  when  the  vineyards 
are  all  glorious  with  their  purpling  clusters,  when 
golden-rod  is  blooming,  and  the  fluffy  balls  of  wild 
clematis  seeds  ripen  in  the  roadside  tangles  and  float 
away,  and  when  the  air,  as  the  sun  draws  to  its  early 
setting,  is  chill  with  the  genuine  appetizing  cold  of 
an  Eastern  October. 

All  this  seasonal  change  is  to  be  appreciated  only 
from  continuance  of  residence,  and  once  realized,  the 
very  gentleness  and  subtleness  of  it  endear  it  to  lov- 
ers of  a  quiet  life.  There  are  no  cold  waves,  hot 
waves,  cyclones  or  blizzards,  no  cloudbursts  or  thun- 
derstorms even,  except  in  the  high  mountains. 

265 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

Kipling  in  one  of  Ms  essays  has  whimsically  alluded 
to  the  boisterous,  unladylike  conduct  of  certain  of 
the  American  seasons,  banging  the  door  in  each 
other's  faces  and  in  other  ways  misbehaving.  He 
could  not  have  spoken  so  of  the  California  seasons, 
which  are  well-bred,  sweet  tempered  and  kindly,  yet 
each  with  a  mind  of  its  own  that  makes  it  stand  out 
distinctly  from  its  fellows.  As  to  wind,  different  lo- 
calities vary.  On  the  whole  there  is  less  of  it  that  is 
disagreeable  (the  desert  regions  excepted)  than  on 
the  Atlantic  coast ;  though  truth  requires  mention  of 
a  dry,  irritating  sort  called  a  norther,  or  in  some  sec- 
tions a  Santa  Ana,  which  is  to  be  borne  with  at 
times.  The  norther  is  as  discomforting  to  Cali- 
fornia as  the  mistral  is  to  the  south  of  France,  but 
is  warm  instead  of  cold.  Its  visitations  vary  in  fre- 
quency in  different  parts  of  the  State.  In  many,  it 
does  not  occur  oftener  than  once  a  year,  sometimes 
not  so  often  as  that,  day  following  day  for  weeks  with 
nothing  blowing  stronger  than  a  five  mile  breeze. 
Then  some  day,  come  certain  preliminary  warm 
puffs,  which  gradually  settle  into  a  tempest  that 
bends  great  trees  like  whips,  whistles  demoniacally 
about  the  corner  of  the  house,  and  raises  an  intoler- 
able dust.  The  velocity  gradually  increases,  attain- 
ing on  rare  occasions  a  maximum  of  fifty  or  sixty 
miles  an  hour  until  every  particle  of  moisture  seems 
sucked  out  of  the  air  and  your  nervous  system  is 
strained  to  the  snapping  point.  Then  suddenly — it 
may  be  after  twelve  hours  of  steady  blow  or  twenty- 

266 


CONCERNING  THE  CLIMATE 

four— there  comes  a  lull,  an  expiring  gasp  or  two, 
and  to  your  unutterable  relief  a  heavenly  stillness 
pervades  the  universe,  and  you  thank  goodness 
that's  over. 

"Oh,  yes,"  says  the  Old  Calif ornian,  when  you  re- 
proach him  for  it,  "the  Lord  sends  us  a  norther  once 
in  a  long  while  to  keep  us  humble,  I  guess,  but  they 
don't  come  often.  When  one  does  come,  there's 
nothing  I  know  of  to  be  done  about  it  but  to  go  in 
the  house,  shut  the  door  and  windows,  and  forget  it 
if  you  can.  Then  when  it  has  blown  over,  go  out 
and  assess  the  damage.  It  won't  be  as  much  as  you 
thought." 

Apropos  of  the  summer,  it  may  be  added  that  to 
appreciate  the  charm  of  the  landscape  in  California 
all  that  season,  one  needs  an  especially  open  mind. 
We  are  all  so  disposed  to  reckon  the  pea-green 
beauty  of  the  Eastern  summer  the  one  proper 
standard  by  which  to  judge  that  our  first  disposition 
with  respect  to  a  prospect  that  is  barren  of  much 
green,  is  to  call  it  burned  up  and  ugly.  When  we 
succeed  in  ridding  ourselves  of  that  convention,  we 
find  that  as  a  matter  of  fact  the  California  country- 
side in  summer  is  the  analogue  of  an  Eastern  land- 
scape in  late  autumn — replete  with  beauty  less  pat- 
ent to  the  careless  than  that  of  a  more  flowery 
season,  but  just  as  intense.  California's  long  rain- 
less period  of  almost  constant  sunshine  is  radically 
different  from  a  droughty  time  in  the  East,  in  this 
respect :  there,  the  normal  condition  is  fixed  for  fre- 

267 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

quent  rains  and  resultant  greenness,  and  the  failure 
of  the  expected  moisture  is  a  calamity  because  ab- 
normal; here  in  California,  the  annual  browning  is 
part  of  the  year's  regular  plan,  God's  permanent 
ordering  for  the  land,  and  like  all  the  routine  of  na- 
ture, beautiful  if  one  have  eyes  to  see.  Pas- 
tures are,  of  course,  withered,  and  hills  are  verdure- 
less,  but  the  absence  of  bright  green  is  made  up  by 
the  abounding  presence  of  rare  tones  of  brown,  olive, 
and  yellow,  which  pale  and  deepen  and  intermingle 
in  countless  exquisite  combinations,  in  the  shifting 
lights  of  the  revolving  days. 

Another  way  of  dividing  the  California  year  is 
into  the  rainy  season  and  the  dry.  This  only  means 
that  from  the  middle  of  spring  until  mid-autumn 
there  is,  as  a  rule,  no  rain;  while  from  mid-autumn 
until  the  middle  of  spring  again,  all  the  rain  falls 
that  does  fall  within  the  compass  of  the  twelve 
months,  but  every  day  is  by  no  means  a  rainy  day. 
The  rainfall,  for  instance,  recorded  at  Los  Angeles 
for  a  series  of  thirty  years,  during  the  months  of 
December,  January,  February  and  March,  averaged 
a  total  of  eleven  and  one-half  inches  for  these  rain- 
iest months  of  the  rainy  season,  being  somewhat 
less  than  three  inches  per  month.  This  is  not  ap- 
preciably different  from  the  average  rainfall  dur- 
ing the  summer  months  in  the  East.  From  Santa 
Barbara  northward  the  volume  of  precipitation  is 
rather  greater. 

To  the  permanent  dweller  in  California  the  season 

268 


CONCERNING  THE  CLIMATE 

of  the  rains  is  a  time  of  especial  content,  for  after 
six  months  of  persistent  dry  weather,  one  is,  if  ever, 
properly  ready  to  welcome  a  rainy  day  with  that  un- 
reserved heartiness  with  which,  one  may  he  sure, 
the  Lord  desires  His  blessings  received.  While  the 
winter  tourist  naturally  enough  grumbles  at  the 
rainy  day  as  an  interference  with  his  personal 
plans  for  motoring,  golfing  or  taking  a  drive,  the 
resident  Californian  is  feelingly  aware  that  all  the 
water  which  makes  the  basis  of  California's  being 
the  pleasant  place  it  is  to  visitors,  must  come  from 
the  clouds,  if  it  comes  at  all,  during  this  season 
which  the  tourist  chooses  for  his  own.  So  he  smiles 
comfortably  as  he  looks  over  his  spectacles  at  his 
rain  gauge  and  sees  the  column  of  water  rising. 

If  the  visitor  would  but  realize  the  fact,  the  win- 
ter rains  in  California  are  among  the  especial 
charms  of  the  climate.  Considering,  for  instance, 
the  territory  tributary  to  Los  Angeles,  nowhere  are 
there  gentler,  tenderer,  softer  rains;  nowhere,  to 
reverse  the  Shakespearean  figure  of  speech,  are  rains 
fuller  of  the  unstrained  quality  of  mercy;  nowhere 
do  they  give  more  considerate  warning  of  their  com- 
ing, gathering  openly  in  a  sky  that  daily  clouds  up 
a  little  more  and  more  for  several  days,  and  then 
beginning  not  in  a  wild  whirl  of  wind  and  a  burst 
of  waterspouts,  but  with  a  gentle  sprinkle  which 
gradually  increases  in  volume  as  the  parched  tongue 
of  earth  is  moistened  to  take  it  in.  Once  begun, 
however,  the  rain  does  not  readily  stop.  Usually 

269 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

for  two  or  three  days  the  clouds  continue  dripping 
as  from  a  sponge  that  is  squeezed  now  hard,  now 
lightly.  Occasionally  there  is  a  lifting  of  the  mists 
from  the  mountains,  revealing  a  snow-capped  peak 
here  and  there  and  letting  patches  of  reassuring  sun- 
light sift  through  to  earth,  before  the  vapors  shut 
down  again  and  fresh  showers  descend.  And  then, 
after  all  is  over,  the  measurement  of  what  has  fallen 
during  the  whole  course  of  the  storm,  will  perhaps 
be  but  an  inch  or  two. 

On  these  days  of  moisture  you  will  find  comfort 
indoors  beside  an  open  fire,  if  you  are  blessed  with 
one,  or  lacking  that,  by  your  gas  grate,  or  portable 
oil  heater  which  sooner  or  later  every  wise  visitant 
in  lodgings  finds  it  conducive  to  comfort  to  have  in 
his  room.  The  rain  should  not,  however,  keep  one 
indoors  entirely,  for  while  at  times  there  is  a  storm 
that  drives  and  dashes,  more  often  the  modest  pre- 
cipitation is  so  nearly  straight  downward  as  to 
make  walking  with  an  umbrella  a  pleasant  pastime. 
There  is  a  delicious  coolness  in  the  dampness  which 
renders  a  light  overcoat  or  medium-weight  wrap 
comfortable,  while  the  cleansing  air  of  a  rainy  day 
in  California  has  a  caress  in  it  that  one  never  forgets, 
being  free  from  the  humid  mugginess  which  not  in- 
frequently accompanies  a  winter  rain  on  the  Atlan- 
tic seaboard.  Then  the  clearing  off,  the  clouds 
breaking  apart  and  lifting  from  the  mountains, 
leaving  all  the  peaks  wreathed  and  the  canons  smok- 
ing with  rising  vapor,  the  clean,  bracing  dryness 

270 


V 


I 


CONCERNING  THE  CLIMATE 

that  succeeds  the  rain,  the  shining  faces  of  the  leaves 
and  flowers  put  up  to  the  sunshine,  the  stimulating 
winter  sunshine  itself— this  part  of  the  rainy  pro- 
gram even  the  grumpiest  tourist  enjoys. 

Of  all  the  surprises  that  California,  and  particu- 
larly Southern  California,  holds  for  the  newcomer, 
probably  none  is  more  thorough  than  the  delight- 
fulness  of  the  summers.  When  Mr.  Moneybags, 
just  out  from  New  York  or  Chicago,  steps  from  his 
room  upon  the  sunny  veranda  of  his  hotel  on  some 
balmy  January  morning  and  draws  his  first  deli- 
cious breath  of  the  California  winter,  he  is  apt  to 
say,  throwing  back  the  lapels  of  his  summery  coat, 
in  which  a  fresh  plucked  flower  is  blooming: 

"Well,  there's  no  discount  on  this — it's  gilt-edge 
paper,  without  doubt;  but  if  it  is  this  warm  in  win- 
ter, it  must  be  like  a  furnace  in  summer. " 

And  that  is  the  regulation  attitude  of  the  Eastern- 
bred  towards  the  Southern  California  summer,  be- 
fore he  has  lived  through  one.  He  knows  that  the 
July  temperatures  of  his  Pennsylvania  or  Massachu- 
setts home  range  anywhere  from  forty  to  eighty  de- 
grees higher  than  in  midwinter  and  when  he  comes 
to  California  and  sees  the  thermometer  at  noon  on 
New  Year's  Day  standing  at  seventy-five  in  the 
shade,  it  seems  natural  enough  to  reckon  on  a  sum- 
mer temperature  of  a  hundred  and  fifteen  to  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty-five! 

Now  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  entire  coastal  region 
of  Southern  California,  as  far  inland  as  the  influ- 

271 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

ence  of  the  Pacific  trade-winds  and  ocean  fogs  is 
felt — the  region  in  which,  for  instance,  such  well- 
known  tourist  cities  as  Santa  Barbara,  Pasadena, 
Los  Angeles  and  San  Diego  lie — has  a  particularly 
charming  summer  climate.  There  is  an  occasional 
brief  spell — rarely  of  more  than  three  or  four  days' 
duration — of  undeniably  hot  weather  to  be  expected 
during  the  progress  of  every  summer,  but  the 
nights  and  mornings  are  even  then  deliciously  cool, 
and  the  days  so  devoid  of  any  perceptible  humid 
quality  and  so  tempered  by  the  regular  wind  off  the 
sea  that  the  midday  temperature  during  such  times, 
though  it  ascends  sometimes  into  the  nineties  and 
occasionally  even  to  a  hundred,  is  never  prostrating. 
Yet  even  after  the  Easterner  has  decided  to  settle  in 
the  State,  and  has  been  told  and  told  and  told  again 
that  the  summers  in  California— the  desert  counties 
excepted — are  no  warmer  than  anywhere  else,  while 
anywhere  within  fifty  miles  of  the  coast  they  are 
really  cooler  than  the  Atlantic  seaboard  ever 
dreamed  of  for  summer  weather,  he  still  finds  it 
hard  to  accept  the  totally  different  conditions  of  the 
Pacific  Slope  at  their  face  value. 

Our  Cousin  Jane  from  Philadelphia  is  typical  of 
this  frame  of  mind,  and  her  first  summer  in  Pasa- 
dena w.as  a  typical  experience.  She  arrived  in  the 
early  part  of  April.  Being  exceedingly  fond  of 
flowers,  she  was  every  day  filled  with  joy  at  the  won- 
derful sight  of  the  gardens  and  of  the  countryside 
in  its  vernal  freshness.  Like  most  people  having  a 

272 


CONCEKNING  THE  CLIMATE 

good  time  in  California  she  lost  track  of  the  calen- 
dar entirely  and  enjoyed  herself  unreservedly. 

One  morning  at  breakfast,  she  suddenly  inquired 
the  day  of  the  month. 

" Mercy  me!"  she  exclaimed,  when  told  it  was  the 
last  day  of  June,  "you  don't  mean  to  say  that  next 
week  will  be  the  Fourth  of  July?" 

After  breakfast,  we  saw  her  examining  the  ther- 
mometer that  hung  in  a  shady  corner  of  the  porch. 

"Why,"  she  said,  looking  disturbed— she  hates 
hot  weather — and  removing  a  light  shawl  which  she 
had  found  comfortable  in  the  cool  breakfast  room, 
"do  you  know  it  is  seventy-six  and  not  half -past 
eight  yet?  It's  going  to  be  a  scorching  hot  day." 

It  was  in  vain  that  we  told  her  that  the  mercury 
had  been  just  as  high  at  the  same  hour  for  the  last 
couple  of  weeks,  and  that  the  absence  of  humidity 
took  the  unbearableness  out  of  high  temperatures. 
Seventy-six  was  seventy-six  to  Cousin  Jane,  and 
meant  at  least  eighty-six  by  lunch-time,  and  that  of 
course  was  too  hot  for  any  mortal  use. 

So  like  Don  Quixote  fighting  the  windmill,  Cousin 
Jane  set  her  lance  in  rest  against  the  weather  in 
orthodox  Philadelphia  style.  Taking  it  for  granted 
that  the  sunlit  outdoors  was  as  hot  as  it  looked, 
which  it  never  is  in  California,  she  decided  to  stay 
indoors,  and  abjured  her  daily  walk  abroad.  She 
pulled  down  the  shades  to  keep  out  the  glare  and 
shut  down  the  windows  of  her  room  to  keep  out  the 
heat;  she  fanned  herself  in  season  and  out,  and  at 

273 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

noon  lay  on  the  lounge  with  closed  eyes.  Immedi- 
ately after  lunch,  she  retired  to  the  gloom  of  her 
darkened  chamber  and  lay  down  to  thoughts  of  the 
stifling  heat.  We  recognized  all  the  motions  of  a 
hot  summer  day  in  the  East. 

As  tea-time  drew  near  she  came  forth  from  re- 
tirement clad  in  her  coolest,  gauziest  attire,  and 
took  another  look  at  the  thermometer.  It  was  still 
well  up  in  the  seventies,  so  she  carried  a  chair  out 
upon  the  shadiest  part  of  the  lawn  and  sat  down 
under  a  tree.  The  same  cool  trade-wind  that  had 
been  gently  blowing  all  day  and  had  made  work  in 
the  broad  sunshine  even  at  midday  entirely  bear- 
able to  the  rest  of  the  family  (though  Cousin  Jane's 
mind  had  been  unable  to  accept  such  a  doctrine), 
was  still  blowing  and  played  maliciously  across  her 
shoulders.  Had  the  thermometer  been  ten  degrees 
lower,  she  would  have  said  the  air  was  cool,  but 
with  the  mercury  not  far  from  eighty,  how  could  it 
be  cool?  It  certainly  would  have  been  hot  at  that 
in  Philadelphia,  and  why  should  it  be  different 
here?  So  Cousin  Jane  stuck  it  out  gamely  until 
the  tea-bell  rang.  She  went  to  bed  early  that  night, 
and  next  morning  came  to  breakfast  with  her 
shawl  on. 

"I  seem  to  have  caught  cold,"  she  said  peevishly. 
"This  is  a  queer  climate." 

It  would  appear  that  Cousin  Jane's  lance  had 
gotten  entangled  in  the  remorseless  sweep  of  the 
windmill's  sail,  and  she  had  been  thrown. 

274 


CONCERNING  THE  CLIMATE 


II.    THE  INVALID  AND  THE  CLIMATE 

In  the  case  of  invalids,  it  is  to  be  borne  in  mind 
that  the  climate  in  itself  does  not  cure,  but  it  en- 
ables the  ailing  one  who  is  careful,  to  take  the  need- 
ful steps  in  the  line  of  his  cure,  without  the  ag- 
gravating assaults  upon  his  progress  to  which  the 
Eastern  climate,  do  what  he  will,  subjects  him. 

In  such  an  Eastern  city  as  Philadelphia,  for  in- 
stance, or  Boston,  no  man  with  a  weak  throat  or  a 
disposition  to  catarrhal  troubles,  can  possibly  get 
through  a  winter  without  a  certain  number  of  colds. 
In  Southern  California,  there  is  no  need  of  his  hav- 
ing a  single  one,  if  he  be  careful  to  wear  woolen  un- 
derclothing, to  avoid  sitting  in  the  shade,  and 
always  to  carry  an  overcoat  if  he  is  to  be  out  after 
sundown.  Thus  if  he  has  any  doctoring  to  do  or 
any  special  course  of  treatment  to  follow,  he  can 
benefit  steadily  by  it  without  encountering  the  set- 
backs of  recurring  colds  which  in  the  climate  of  the 
East  with  its  sudden  and  violent  changes,  are  prac- 
tically inescapable. 

To  this  passive  advantage  the  California  climate 
offers  the  positive  benefit  of  an  abundance  of  sun- 
shine, a  lower  relative  humidity  *  than  the  Atlantic 

*A  word  should  be  added  about  humidity  on  the  Pacific  slop*, 
as  the  reports  of  the  United  States  Weather  Bureau  are  mislead- 
ing on  this  subject.  They  state  for  Los  Angeles,  for  example,  a 
mean  humidity  of  about  71  degrees  for  the  year — the  same  as  at 
Philadelphia,  which,  among  its  natural  advantages,  makes  no  claim 

275 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

seaboard,  and  a  pronounced  equability.  Of  these 
three,  the  greatest  of  value  to  the  average  invalid 
is  the  sunshine,  an  invigorating  energy  which  for 
many  ills  is  doctor  and  nurse  rolled  into  one.  Even 
in  summer  it  is  to  most  Californians  not  enervating 
but  distinctly  stimulating,  and  sunstroke  is  a  word 
practically  without  place  in  the  California  vocabu- 
lary. The  special  climatic  feature  of  danger  is  the 

to  a  climate  of  low  humidity !  In  point  of  fact  the  term  "humidity" 
in  ordinary  parlance,  stands  for  a  certain  enervating,  oppressive 
mugginess  rarely  ever  felt  in  California,  and  for  this  the  Weather 
Bureau  has  no  descriptive  word — its  humidity  is  simply  the  degree 
of  moisture  in  the  air. 

Two  other  facts  need  to  be  borne  in  mind  in  relation  to  the 
Weather  Bureau  reports: 

1.  The  Office  observations  are  taken  at  8  A.  M.  and  8  P.  M.,  and 
while  data  compiled  on  this  basis  probably  represent  the  average 
conditions  for  the  twenty-four  hours  on  the  Atlantic  seaboard,  they 
do  not  so   represent  those  of  the  Pacific,   since  they  fail  to  take 
account  of  the  prevailing  low  humidity  of  the  Pacific  Coast  mid-day. 
Owing  to  the  nearness  of  the  ocean  on  one  side  and  the  desert  on 
the  other,  slight  wind-shifts  cause  marked  and  rapid  fluctuations 
in  the  moisture-content  of  the  air,  which  are  ignored  in  computing 
the  daily  averages.     For   instance,   during   spring  and  summer   at 
Los   Angeles,   the   degree  of   atmospheric   moisture    is   high    in   the 
early  morning,   (perhaps  90  degrees),  and  decreases  rapidly  as  soon 
as   the  usual  morning  cloudiness    (high   fog)    breaks    away.     This 
decrease   continues   until  afternoon  when   the  moisture-laden  wind 
sets  in  from  the  Pacific,  bringing  the  evening  coolness.     The  aver- 
age mid-day  humidity  at  Los  Angeles  is  about  50  degrees,  and  at 
points    farther    inland    considerably    lower. 

2.  On  the  Atlantic  seaboard  the  excessive  humidities  accompany 
high   temperatures,   while   in   California   the   direct   opposite  is  the 
rule.     When  the  humidity  is  high  on  the  Pacific  slope  it  is  because 
of  a  cool  ocean  breeze,  which  is  naturally  invigorating  and  exhila- 
rating. 

The  author  is  indebted  for  much  of  the  above  statement  of  facts 
to  A.  B.  Wollaber,  in  charge  of  the  Local  Weather  Office  at  Los 
Angeles. 

276 


CONCERNING  THE  CLIMATE 

great  difference  in  temperature  between  day  and 
night  and  between  sunshine  and  shadow.  People 
from  the  East  rarely  realize  this  when  they  first 
arrive,  and  are  disappointed  that  they  cannot  be 
comfortable  in  midwinter  in  alpaca  coats  and  gauze 
undershirts.  "We  always  recommend  our  friends  to 
bring  all  their  winter  outfit  (except  ulsters)  and 
they  find  that  at  one  time  or  another,  it  is  all  needed. 

The  people  who  complain  of  the  Pacific  Coast 
climate — and  there  are  many  such — will,  in  all  prob- 
ability, be  found  to  have  neglected  common  sense 
requirements  as  to  clothing.  Customarily  in  a 
Pasadena  winter,  for  instance,  the  thermometer 
stands  at  from  forty  to  fifty  at  breakfast-time,  rises 
to  seventy  or  even  eighty  at  midday,  and  dropping 
rapidly  as  the  sun  nears  its  setting,  is  back  again 
in  the  forties  by  bed-time.  The  human  system  was 
never  framed  to  meet  changes  of  some  thirty  de- 
grees Fahrenheit  in  six  or  eight  hours  without  some 
corresponding  change  in  dress,  yet  one  finds  some 
men  shivering  along  on  winter  nights  in  summer 
clothes  and  no  overcoat,  and  women  in  gauzy  shirt- 
waists and  no  hats,  and  if  they  do  not  develop 
rheumatism  or  chronic  catarrh,  it  is  only  because 
they  do  not  stay  in  California  long  enough. 

If  one  is  seeking  climate  in  California  there  is  a 
considerable  choice  in  the  selection  of  a  place  of 
sojourn.  Climates  vary  markedly  within  a  short 
distance.  The  air  of  Pasadena,  for  instance,  charm- 
ing as  it  is  to  most,  is  not  beneficial  to  all,  as  the 

277 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

prevalence  of  the  ocean  night-fogs  which  temper 
the  summer  climate  and  contribute  largely  to  the 
city's  delightfulness  as  a  summer  residence,  im- 
parts a  degree  of  dampness  to  the  atmosphere  which 
is  not  best  for  certain  conditions  of  health.  River- 
side or  Redlands  with  their  drier  air  might  prove 
better  for  these,  but  the  drier  heat  of  their  sum- 
mers due  to  the  distance  from  the  sea,  make  summer 
residence  so  far  inland  rather  oppressive.  Banning, 
in  the  San  Grorgonio  Pass  overlooking  the  desert, 
has  its  advocates  for  diseases  of  the  respiratory 
system,  and  the  foot-hill  towns  perched  on  the  rim 
of  the  San  Gabriel  Valley — places  like  Sierra  Madre 
and  Monrovia,  connected  with  Los  Angeles  by  di- 
rect electric  lines — have  the  advantage,  salutary  to 
many  conditions,  of  being  well  above  the  ordinary 
fogs  of  spring  and  summer  and  yet  within  the  cool- 
ing influence  of  the  sea.  Central  California,  too,  is 
rich  in  phases  of  climate  that  make  it  a  section  to 
be  reckoned  with  by  the  health-seeker.  The  Napa 
Valley,  just  north  of  San  Francisco  is  one  of  many 
that  have  an  enviable  reputation  in  this  regard. 
This  valley,  as  the  readers  of  Robert  Louis  Steven- 
son's works  will  remember,  is  the  scene  of  his  "Sil- 
verado Squatters." 

It  is,  indeed,  misleading  ever  to  speak  of  Cal- 
ifornia's climate — rather  should  we  speak  plurally 
of  its  climates,  of  which  there  are  almost  as  many 
varieties  as  post-offices ;  and  a  matter  of  a  few  miles 
will  often  make  an  essential  difference  to  the  in- 

278 


CONCEKNING  THE  CLIMATE 

valid.  Cases  have  been  known  to  be  at  a  standstill 
in  Altadena,  for  instance,  that  have  improved  stead- 
ily at  Pasadena,  five  miles  away,  and  vice  versa. 
It  is  therefore  of  the  greatest  importance  to  health 
seekers  not  to  make  up  their  minds  prior  to  coming 
to  California,  as  to  the  particular  locality  where 
they  will  settle.  Individual  cases  often  involve  dif- 
ferent requirements,  and  in  view  of  the  wide  choice 
to  select  from,  it  is  wise  to  look  about  and  experi- 
mentally test  a  number  of  places  before  deciding 
on  any. 


279 


CAMP  COOKERY 
FOR  THE  NON-PROFESSIONAL  CAMPER 

I.    WHAT  OUKS  Is  NOT 
(With  Apologies  to  Mr.  Stewart  Edward  White.) 

IT  was  before  the  days  of  some  experiences  set 
down  in  this  book,  and  Sylvia  was  seated  at  a 
civilized  window  in  a  civilized  room  reading  a  large 
green  volume.  She  looked  troubled.  Passing 
through  the  room  I  noted  the  anxious  expression 
and  inquired  the  cause.  The  book  was  closed  with 
some  emphasis. 

"I  am  discouraged, "  she  said. 

I  was  alarmed.  When  before  had  Sylvia  been 
discouraged?  she  who  had  always  found  the  interest 
of  life  rise  with  the  increasing  difficulty  of  its  daily 
problems,  and  who  thanked  Heaven  for  obstacles 
because  they  made  such  admirable  stepping-stones 
to  greater  heights.  What  catastrophe  had  damp- 
ened this  cheerful  spirit?  What  barrier  had  closed 
the  door  of  hope? 

"This  man/'  and  Sylvia  made  a  vicious  poke  at 
the  green  volume,  "this  man  is  telling  how  to  cook 
in  the  wilderness.  I  have  never  cooked  in  the  wil- 

280 


CAMP  COOKERY 

derness  in  my  life,  but  the  performance  as  he  de- 
scribes it  does  not  seem  difficult.  The  difficulty  to 
my  mind  lies  in  his  results — they  would  simply  kill 
us  both.  Now,  we  are  planning  trips  as  wild  as 
these.  Do  we  have  to  live  in  this  dreadful  way! 
Please  listen  to  this"— and  she  read  a  stomach-turn- 
ing recipe  involving  the  compounding  of  flour, 
raisins,  baking  powder,  fat  salt  pork  and  sugar, 
"  mixed  into  a  mess  with  a  quantity  of  larrupy 
dope." 

Having  written  a  little  myself,  I  felt  privileged 
to  speak  as  one  of  the  craft,  and  so  I  expounded  my 
views  of  the  matter. 

"The  author  is  just  astonishing  the  natives  a  lit- 
tle, I  think ;  nobody  has  to  live  that  way  anywhere, 
and  certainly  we  don't.  The  men  in  this  book  were 
possessed  of  iron  nerves  and  robust  physiques,  and 
the  very  bohemianism  of  their  fare  was  part  of  the 
fun  to  them.  We  are  of  a  different  makeup.  "We 
have  nerves  and  stomachs  and  livers  that  must  be 
treated  with  a  certain  consideration,  or  we  are  out 
of  the  running.  Now  I  think  we  can  prove  to  our- 
selves and  to  the  public  whom  we  shall  try  to  reach 
with  the  account  of  the  accomplishment,  that  it  is 
entirely  possible  to  live  in  the  wilderness  like  peo- 
ple of  gentle  breeding  and  to  provide,  a  hundred 
miles  from  anywhere,  without  any  extraordinary 
outlay  of  means,  a  menu  and  a  menage  to  which  we 
should  feel  in  nowise  ashamed  to  invite  our  most 
particular  friends— only  we  won't!" 

281 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

The  following  chapters  are  an  endeavor  to  show 
how  this  was  done  and  contain  some  practical  direc- 
tions, based  on  our  own  experience,  as  to  how  others 
may  achieve  a  similar  result. 


II.    THE  COMFORTS  OF  HOME  WHEN  CAMPING 

To  invade  the  time-honored  realm  of  the  camp 
frying-pan  and  smoke-blackened  coffee-pot  with  any 
new  suggestions  for  camp  cookery  is  a  fearsome  ven- 
ture. Flapjacks  and  bacon  dished  up  on  a  tin  plate 
and  "renched  down,"  to  use  a  favorite  expression 
of  a  guide  we  once  employed,  with  coffee,  always 
coffee  and  yet  again  coffee,  served  in  a  granite- 
ware  cup  with  a  tin  spoon — these  are  inseparably 
linked  in  many  minds  with  the  idea  of  camp  life 
which  accordingly  has  been  thought  not  for  those 
less  vigorous,  who  even  in  an  outdoor  existence 
cannot  digest  fried  fare  or  drink  unlimited 
coffee. 

We  know,  nevertheless,  from  experience  that  two 
people  of  the  latter  type  can  travel  through  the 
wilds  of  Arizona,  New  Mexico  or  California  with 
entire  ease,  provided  there  be  a  little  forethought 
and  some  understanding  of  cookery ;  but  some  time 
must  be  spent  beforehand  in  careful  packing,  and 
considerable  extra  cost  of  transportation  must  be 
reckoned  on.  Also  it  is  well  to  be  able  to  avail  one's 
self  of  the  natural  products  of  the  location  where 
one  may  be  camped.  And  here  a  little  pioneer  lore 

282 


CAMP  COOKEEY 

and  botanical  knowledge  will  come  into  play.  For 
example,  lemons  cannot  be  had  everywhere,  but  one 
of  the  commonest  shrubs  of  the  California  moun- 
tains is  a  species  of  sumac  known  as  the  Indian- 
lemonade  bush  from  the  sticky,  red  berries  of 
which,  by  simply  steeping  them  in  cold  water  for  a 
few  minutes,  a  refreshing  acid  drink  may  be  made. 
Neither  may  one  hope  for  watermelon  in  the  desert, 
but  the  fruit  of  the  prickly  pear  and  some  other 
cacti  is  almost  as  delicious  as  the  watermelon,  with 
somewhat  of  its  flavor.  Such  luxuries,  too,  as  let- 
tuce and  spinach,  are  not  to  be  expected  in  the  wil- 
derness, but  a  frequent  weed  in  certain  sections  of 
the  State  is  a  relative  of  the  Spring  Beauty  of  the 
East,  known  as  Miners'  or  Indian  Lettuce,  the 
younger  stems  and  leaves  of  which  boiled  with  bacon 
and  served  with  slices  of  hard  boiled  egg  (if  you 
have  eggs  with  you)  make  a  capital  substitute  for 
other  greens. 

In  laying  in  supplies  for  a  camping  trip,  it  is  well 
to  take  as  few  canned  things  as  possible,  as  these 
are  heavy  to  transport  and  if  needed  can  usually 
be  bought  from  the  traders  or  supply  stations  on 
the  road.  So  also  can  bacon,  coffee  and  tea,  usually 
all  of  quite  good  quality.  If  space  is  very  limited, 
the  trader  can  be  depended  upon  also  for  flour,  but 
as  this  is  frequently  poor  at  some  places,  it  is  pref- 
erable to  carry  one's  own.  We  take  less  flour  than 
do  most  providers,  and  more  corn-meal.  If  one  un- 
derstands the  possibilities  of  the  latter,  there  is  a 

283 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

varied  number  of  appetizing  dishes  to  be  made 
from  it.  They  are  more  nutritious  than  wheat- 
breads,  besides  affording  more  variety.  White 
corn-meal  is  much  more  delicate  and  less  apt  to 
grow  strong  in  hot  weather  than  the  yellow  meal, 
which  nearly  every  veteran  camper  will  tell  you  to 
buy.  After  you  have  listened  respectfully  to  his 
advice,  take  white  corn-meal. 

Always  use  the  best  baking  powder.  Traders  as 
a  rule  have  only  inferior  grades.  Better  still,  do 
not  use  any,  but  substitute  cream  of  tartar  and  soda 
in  the  proportions  respectively  of  two  to  one,  or 
yeast  when  procurable.  Take  several  different 
kinds  of  dried  beans  instead  of  all  one  kind.  If  you 
ever  crave  variety  it  will  be  in  the  matter  of  beans. 
The  white  navy  bean,  the  pink  frijole,  and  the  dried 
lima  make  a  grateful  assortment  of  nutrition  in  a 
small  compass. 

Carry  as  much  dried  fruit  as  possible,  and  again 
study  variety.  Prunes  once  or  twice  are  bearable 
but  prunes  always  are  a  weariness  to  the  flesh;  so 
besides  these  it  is  well  to  pack  small  quantities  each 
of  dried  peaches,  apples,  apricots,  figs  and  dates; 
and  then  fill  in  every  crack  of  the  baggage  with 
English  walnuts  and  raisins.  Then  there  are  also 
"evaporated"  apples,  which  the  traders  usually 
carry  and  which  make  a  welcome  change  from  the 
common  dried  apple  of  commerce. 

We  give  very  little  space  to  condensed  milk,  never 
having  found  its  gummy  sweetness  a  satisfactory 

284 


CAMP  COOKERY 

addition  to  our  menus.  For  those  whose  content- 
ment in  camp  is  dependent  on  something  of  the 
sort,  some  brand  of  evaporated  cream  is  in  our 
judgment  to  be  preferred  to  condensed  milk. 

As  eggs  are  at  the  bottom  of  so  many  culinary 
triumphs,  we  take  as  many  as  it  is  possible  to  carry. 
Get  them  absolutely  fresh,  wipe  them  carefully,  and 
pack  the  requirements  of  your  first  week  in  oatmeal 
or  any  dried  cereal  which  you  may  be  taking.  They 
will  in  this  way  stand  a  great  deal  of  rough  travel. 
The  supply  for  the  latter  part  of  your  trip,  should 
first  be  greased,  then  dipped  in  salt,  each  wrapped 
carefully  in  paper  and  packed  in  boxes.  If  they 
can  be  packed  in  salt,  so  much  the  better.  They 
make  in  this  way  heavy  packages,  but  it  is  the  best 
manner  we  have  found  to  tide  them,  in  cookable 
condition,  over  several  weeks  of  travel  or  camping. 

With  respect  to  butter,  secure  a  perfectly  fresh 
lot  and  pack  it  in  small  jelly  glasses  with  tight  lids, 
allowing  one  glassful  for  two  persons  for  one  day. 
Be  careful  not  to  work  or  smear  the  butter  around 
in  the  packing  or  it  will  lose  its  sweetness  and  never 
be  good  afterwards.  Keep  it  as  cool  as  possible 
during  transportation— above  all,  protected  from 
the  sun — and  at  once  upon  reaching  camp  bury  it  in 
a  box  in  the  shade,  preferably  near  water. 

For  drinkables,  a  bottle  of  raspberry  vinegar  and 
one  of  unfermented  grape- juice  will  not  be  difficult 
to  carry,  and  will  prove  wonderful  stimulants  to 
cheerfulness  under  some  adverse  conditions  which 

285 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

will  come  to  the  best  regulated  camp.  For  a  steady 
hot  drink  we  have  found  invaluable  a  certain  prepa- 
ration of  cocoa  called  choco-lactine,  which  has  not 
the  liver-clogging  or  headache-producing  quality  of 
ordinary  cocoa.  Moreover,  unlike  so  many  prepa- 
rations of  concentrated  nutriment,  it  is  entirely 
palatable.  It  is  a  coarse  powder  containing  be- 
sides the  cocoa  an  admixture  of  milk  and  sugar; 
four  teaspoonfuls  dropped  into  a  cup  of  hot  water 
are  instantaneously  converted  into  a  delicious, 
wholesome  brew.  There  are  times,  however,  when 
to  certain  temperaments  nothing  takes  the  place  of 
a  cup  of  hot  tea.  As  this  is  readily  made,  it  is  well 
to  carry  a  packet  of  the  leaves  along,  even  on  trips 
of  a  few  hours. 

The  question  of  meat  in  mountain  fastnesses  or 
desert  is  always  a  perplexing  one.  Dried  beef  in 
the  " chunk"  is  good,  this  being  the  most  concen- 
trated form  available,  and  in  this  shape  it  keeps 
better  than  when  chipped,  and  the  amount  for  each 
meal  is  sliced  off  as  needed.  Bacon  of  course  is 
one  of  the  main  standbys,  and  variety  may  be  se- 
cured by  taking  with  you  a  piece  of  pickled  pork 
(not  dry  salted  pork,  which  is  a  very  different  thing 
and  will  not  keep  well)  and  keeping  it  packed  in 
salt  in  as  cool  a  place  as  your  camp  affords.  When 
there  is  a  sportsman  in  your  party,  even  if  you  are 
not  out  primarily  for  game,  your  larder  may  be 
enlivened  by  the  addition  of  a  rabbit  now  and  then ; 
and  in  a  trout  country  there  is,  of  course,  fish  in 

286 


CAMP  COOKERY 

season.  For  frying  purposes  the  fat  from  fried 
bacon  is  by  far  the  best  material  both  for  diges- 
tion's sake  and  also,  to  many  palates,  for  tastiness. 
If  you  use  many  fried  things,  provide  yourself  be- 
fore starting  with  some  bacon  rinds  from  the  meat 
shop,  and  render  the  fat  down  to  take  with  you 
packed  in  a  tight  jar.  If  you  do  not  fry  much,  the 
fat  left  over  from  the  bacon  cooked  in  camp,  will  be 
enough  for  ordinary  purposes. 

III.     SOME  RECIPES  TO  FIT  THE  WILDS 

If  for  a  brief  time  you  are  situated  where  none 
but  canned  meats  can  be  obtained — a  situation 
which  from  the  standpoint  of  gastronomic  comfort 
is  to  to  be  avoided  as  far  as  possible— you  will  find 
that  the  following  dish,  known  to  us  as  "The  Cow- 
boy's Delight, "  will  prove  an  acceptable  interlude 
in  the  monotony: 

Into  a  pint  of  boiling  water  slice  two  small  on- 
ions and  several  potatoes ;  season  well  with  salt  and 
pepper ;  and  when  the  potatoes  are  nearly  done,  add 
one  can  of  corned  beef  cut  into  dice.  If  you  have 
butter  and  flour,  rub  together  a  teaspoonful  of  each 
and  thicken  with  it.  This  amount  will  barely  suf- 
fice for  two  normal  appetites  on  a  cold  day,  and  if 
a  reasonably  hungry  cowboy  drops  in,  the  quantity 
will  need  to  be  at  least  doubled.  If  corned  beef  is 
scarce,  use  more  potatoes  and  onions. 

A  dish  which  in  our  camp  experience  we  have 

287 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

found  particularly  palatable  to  all  partakers,  goes 
by  the  name  of  "The  Arizona  Special."  It  is  com- 
pounded as  follows : 

Put  into  a  saucepan  one  and  one-half  cups  of 
corn-meal.  Pour  boiling  water  upon  this  till  it  is 
of  the  consistency  of  chicken  feed.  Add  a  lump  of 
butter,  varying  from  the  size  of  a  walnut  to  that  of 
an  egg,  according  to  your  supply  of  butter.  Cover 
this  closely  that  the  meal  may  steam  and  the  butter 
melt.  Beat  up  two  eggs  and  add  them,  with  one 
teaspoonful  of  salt  and  two  of  sugar,  to  the  corn- 
meal  after  the  butter  is  melted.  Beat  this  together 
and  add  sufficient  cold  water  to  make  a  rather  thick 
batter  that  will  drop — not  pour — from  the  spoon. 
Add  to  this  two  rounding  teaspoonfuls  of  baking 
powder;  beat  thoroughly,  and  turn  into  your  frying 
pan,  which  must  be  hot  on  the  camp-fire  or  stove 
and  greased  with  plenty  of  bacon  fat.  Cover  closely 
with  a  tight  lid  and  cook  over  a  very  slow  fire.  By 
being  closely  covered,  this  mixture  will  be  practi- 
cally baked.  It  should  be  turned  out  upon  the  lid 
when  done  and  slid  back  again  into  the  frying  pan 
with  the  brown  side  up  so  as  to  brown  the  side  that 
was  on  top.  If  this  is  properly  made,  your  only  dif- 
ficulty will  be  in  supplying  enough  of  it. 

"But,"  some  one  objects,  "where  are  eggs  to  be 
had  in  the  wilderness!" 

Of  course,  if  you  have  no  eggs,  do  not  use  them; 
but  as  explained  elsewhere  in  this  book,  one  who 
believes  in  comfort  in  camping  can  arrange  to  have 

288 


CAMP  COOKERY 

them  under  any  ordinary  conditions.  They  are  no 
more  trouble  to  transport  than  anything  else  when 
you  get  used  to  it.  Naturally,  however,  there  are 
times  when  the  best  laid  plans  for  an  egg-supply 
gang  agley,  in  which  emergency,  a  pleasant  dish  is 
the  following,  which  even  at  home  is  one  of  the 
best  ways  of  using  corn-meal. 

Make  a  plain  corn-meal  mush,  boiling  it,  if  you 
have  the  time,  for  several  hours.  Allow  it  to  cool 
only  slightly,  meantime  stirring  it  well.  It  should 
be  well  salted  and  quite  thick  in  consistency.  Now 
into  a  frying  pan  with  an  abundance  of  hot  bacon 
fat,  drop  this  hot  corn-meal  by  spoonfuls  making 
so  many  fat  little  cakes,  each  separate  from  the 
other.  When  one  side  of  a  cake  has  browned — 
this  will  take  some  time — turn  the  other  side  to 
brown  also.  Serve  "hot  off  the  griddle/'  Simple 
as  the  process  sounds,  it  must  be  carefully  done  to 
get  the  right  results ;  but  when  successful,  the  taste 
of  this  is  entirely  different  from  that  of  the  usual 
fried  cold  corn-meal  mush,  and  is  sure  to  make 
a  sensation  with  those  who  have  not  eaten  it  be- 
fore. 

To  one  of  our  desert  camps,  three  young  men 
employed  upon  a  Government  errand  connected 
with  the  Geodetic  Survey  came  along  with  their 
pack-train  one  morning,  and  we  invited  them  to  stay 
to  dinner.  We  happened  to  be  flush  of  corn-meal 
that  day,  and  our  guests  were  accordingly  served 
with  this  particular  make  of  mush.  From  the  ra- 

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UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

pidity  with  which  it  disappeared  from  the  plates, 
we  soon  saw  it  had  made  a  hit.  Presently  in  the 
midst  of  an  animated  conversation,  one  of  the 
party,  in  the  act  of  putting  a  piece  of  mush  in  his 
mouth,  paused  and  suddenly  said  to  Sylvia : 

"Madam,  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  is  this  delecta- 
ble thing — mush?" 

"Just  what  I've  been  wanting  to  ask  ever  since 
we  began  eating,"  said  Number  Two;  "it's  sure  out 
of  sight." 

"Mush!  you  clodhopper!"  interjected  Number 
Three,  "it  can't  be — it's  ambrosia.  Mush  was  never 
like  that." 

When  the  true  inwardness  of  the  article  was  ex- 
plained to  them  and  the  conaumption  of  it  was  re- 
sumed, Number  One  nodded  his  head  to  the  others. 
Solemnly  he  remarked,  as  one  who  had  seen  a  great 
light  on  his  future  course : 

"Get  on  to  that,  boys,  she  fries  it  while  it's  hot." 

There  are  times  when  a  frying-pan  with  a  tight 
lid  is  not  to  be  scorned  as  an  oven.  Besides  the 
"Arizona  Special"  already  described,  we  have  fre- 
quently, in  emergencies,  had  to  make  baking-pow- 
der bread  in  a  frying-pan.  Two  cups  of  flour,  a 
heaping  teaspoonful  of  shortening,  a  teaspoonful  of 
baking  powder,  salt  to  taste  and  cold  water  to  make 
a  stiff  dough,  are  all  that  are  needed.  A  piece  of 
brown  paper  spread  on  a  stone  answers  for  a  table 
in  an  impromptu  camp,  and  a  bottle  makes  a  good 
rolling-pin.  Flour  the  paper  and  the  rolling-pin 

290 


CAMP  COOKERY 

bottle,  if  the  dough  sticks ;  roll  it  out  into  a  cake  half 
an  inch  in  thickness,  and  bake  it  in  the  frying-pan 
with  a  lid  tightly  on,  over  a  very  slow  fire.  Of 
course  when  the  bottom  side  browns  when  nearly 
done,  the  bread  can  be  turned  over  and  browned  on 
the  other  side.  Be  sure  not  to  have  too  hot  a  fire, 
or  the  bread  will  scorch  on  the  outside  and  be  raw 
in  the  middle.  Since  it  is  more  digestible,  we  pre- 
fer this  sort  of  bread  to  the  usual  camper's  biscuit 
which  is  baked  in  the  frying-pan  and  tilted  up  be- 
fore the  fire  to  brown  the  tops. 

There  is  also  no  reason,  when  camping  for  any 
protracted  stay,  why  one  should  not  have  yeast- 
risen  bread  in  a  California  camp.  This  idea  may 
be  ridiculed  by  those  accustomed  to  rougher  camp 
life,  but  we  have  never  observed  that  there  is  any 
flagging  on  the  part  of  these  Spartans  in  consum- 
ing their  full  share  of  any  homemade  bread  set  be- 
fore them  in  the  wilds. 

Presupposing  that  one  understands  bread  mak- 
ing at  home,  one  simply  sets  the  sponge  at  night, 
putting  it  in  the  camp  oven  after  the  fire  is  extin- 
guished, and  while  the  oven  still  retains  a  slight 
heat.  In  the  morning  make  up  the  bread  in  the 
dough,  set  it  well  covered  in  the  sun  to  rise,  and 
bake  in  the  oven  of  the  camp-stove.  If  a  stove  is 
not  in  camp,  yeast  bread  may  be  baked  in  a  Dutch 
oven,  but  for  success  in  this  one  must  thoroughly 
understand  the  management  of  this  historic  cook- 
ing-pot. The  yeast  to  be  employed  in  all  this  is 

291 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

that  for  sale  everywhere  in  the  West  in  the  form  of 
dried  cakes.  Be  sure  that  it  is  not  stale. 

Of  the  few  tinned  goods  which  we  have  carried 
on  our  outings,  we  have  always  found  canned  to- 
matoes the  most  useful,  despite  the  prejudice  which 
exists  against  them  in  some  minds  on  the  score  of 
health.  Being  so  extensively  used  throughout  the 
West,  they  are,  we  believe,  generally  put  up  with 
care,  and  we  have  never  experienced  any  deleteri- 
ous results  from  them.  The  men  on  the  cattle 
ranges  find  the  liquidity  of  a  fresh-opened  can  of 
tomatoes  a  decided  improvement  on  the  alkaline 
water  of  many  arid  sections,  and  to  them  it  serves 
as  meat  and  drink.  Of  the  many  ways  in  which 
the  juice  and  the  tomato  itself  may  be  employed  in 
cookery,  perhaps  the  least  known  is  the  fried  canned 
tomato.  With  a  little  butter  hot  in  a  frying-pan, 
the  larger  and  firmer  pieces  of  the  canned  tomato 
will  generally  be  found  solid  enough  to  fry  very 
satisfactorily.  Season  well,  cover  them  closely  in 
the  pan,  and  be  careful  that  they  do  not  scorch. 

Next  in  value  to  the  tomato,  canned  corn  is 
recommended.  This,  besides  being  useful  heated 
and  served  as  it  comes  from  the  can,  may,  if  you 
have  an  egg  or  two,  be  developed  into  quite  a  pre- 
sentable corn-pudding;  or  if  beaten  up  with  an 
equal  quantity  of  corn-meal  into  a  thin  batter  with 
an  egg,  a  little  butter  and  baking  powder,  and  the 
whole  baked  in  the  form  of  cakes  in  the  frying-pan, 
a  result  is  attained  which  in  the  wilderness  has 

292 


CAMP  COOKERY 

more  than  once  been  feelingly  voted  "an  all-right 
corn  fritter,  you  bet." 

One  finds  some  excellent  brands  of  canned  string 
beans  in  Western  stores,  but  in  view  of  your  neces- 
sary stock  of  dried  beans,  the  canned  articles  need 
not  enter  into  your  calculations,  unless  you  have  a 
surplus  of  room.  In  that  event,  a  can  of  these 
string  beans  will  make  a  very  pleasant  interlude  of 
greenery  in  a  long-drawn-out  diet  of  dried  foods. 

In  the  matter  of  cooking  fish  in  the  wilderness, 
there  is  some  choice.  One  of  the  best  ways  is  the 
time-honored  one  of  wrapping  the  fish,  well  washed, 
salted  and  peppered,  in  damp  tissue  paper  if  you 
have  it,  or  failing  that  in  ordinary  brown  manila 
paper  dampened,  and  laying  it  thus  enveloped  in 
the  hot  ashes  of  the  camp-fire.  Some  experience 
will  be  needed  to  teach  the  novice  the  proper  hot- 
ness  of  the  ashes  and  the  length  of  time  to  leave  the 
fish  in,  but  the  knowledge  gained  will  be  worth  the 
sacrifice  of  a  few  trout.  It  is  to  be  noted  that  the 
ashes,  while  they  need  to  be  quite  hot,  must  not  con- 
tain redhot  coals  to  come  in  contact  with  the  fish. 
The  degree  of  heat  striven  for  in  your  ashes  should 
be  in  a  general  way  that  of  a  hot  oven,  for  which 
the  ash-bed  acts  as  a  substitute. 

To  secure  in  the  fish  an  entirely  different  but  just 
as  delicious  a  flavor,  find  a  thin,  smooth  slab  of 
stone  a  foot  or  so  square,  and  support  this  at  the 
four  corners  on  four  small  stones  to  serve  as  short 
legs.  Build  under  the  slab  a  hot  fire  and  keep  it 

293 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

going  until  the  stone  is  thoroughly  heated;  then 
grease  this  improvised  griddle  with  bacon  fat,  and 
lay  your  fish,  well  seasoned,  upon  it.  If  the  fish  are 
small,  it  will  not  be  necessary  to  turn  them  as  the 
steady  heat  of  the  stones  will  cook  them  evenly 
through. 

In  making  this  sort  of  a  griddle,  do  not  be  dis- 
turbed if  a  stone  or  two  flies  explosively  into  sev- 
eral pieces.  Some  stones  do  that.  In  such  an 
event,  try  another  kind. 

"Salmon  a  la  San  Francisco"  is  excellent  for  us- 
ing up  a  can  of  salmon  already  opened.  It  received 
its  name  from  being  a  popular  dish  in  the  dark  days 
immediately  succeeding  the  great  San  Francisco 
fire,  when  everybody  was  cooking  in  the  streets  and 
open  lots.  This  is  it:  Boil  potatoes  so  as  to  have 
rather  more  potato  than  salmon.  Mix  potato  and 
salmon  and  season  highly  with  salt  and  pepper  and 
scraped  onion,  chopping  in  also,  if  you  have  it,  a 
boiled  egg.  Add  a  little  warm  water  to  keep  from 
being  too  dry,  and  bake  in  a  frying-pan  tightly 
covered  over  a  very  slow  fire,  as  directed  for  the 
"Arizona  Special. " 

Apropos  of  rabbits,  on  which  the  camper-out  in 
California  reckons  more  or  less  largely  for  variety 
in  his  bill  of  fare,  it  is  said  that  the  flesh  of  the 
jack-rabbit  at  some  seasons  of  the  year,  is  not  good 
for  food;  but  in  our  own  experience  we  have  never 
encountered  specimens  which  were  not  perfectly 
satisfactory  if  parboiled  for  a  few  minutes,  the 

294 


CAMP  COOKEEY 

water  then  thrown  out,  and  the  meat  started  again 
in  a  fresh  supply  of  hot,  salted  water.  The  jack- 
rabbit,  which  at  its  best  is  a  delicious  game  meat, 
is  always  preferably  to  be  boiled  or  baked;  but  of 
course  when  it  comes  to  "them  leetle  bresh  rab- 
bits," as  one  of  our  chance  acquaintances  in  the 
San  Gabriel  foothills  lovingly  called  the  Mollie  Cot- 
tontails, these  may  be  fried  as  simply  and  easily  as 
spring  chickens. 


IV.    THE  DUTCH  OVEN 

As  Sancho  Panza  blessed  the  man  who  invented 
sleep,  so  do  we  bless  the  genius  who  first  thought 
of  the  Dutch  oven.  When  you  are  in  a  permanent 
camp  where  a  stove  is  denied  you,  the  Dutch  oven 
puts  an  unscrub-off-able,  triple-plated  silver  lining 
to  the  cloud.  It  is  simply  a  homely  iron  pot,  ut- 
terly styleless,  standing  on  three  short  legs,  and 
covered  with  a  close-fitting  iron  lid  that  has  a 
raised  rim  all  around  its  edge.  Ours  is  ten  inches 
in  diameter,  weighs  fifteen  pounds,  and  is  steeped 
in  such  memories  of  stewed  jack-rabbit,  baked 
beans  of  royal  flavor,  corn  pone  and  white  wheaten 
loaves,  that  one  look  at  it  on  the  bluest  of  Blue 
Mondays  routs  the  devil,  foot,  horse  and  dragoons. 
When  ready  for  cooking,  set  the  oven  on  a  bed  of 
live  coals,  and  sprinkle  a  layer  of  similar  coals  upon 
the  lid— the  upturned  rim  will  hold  them  in  place- 

295 


UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

thereby  ensuring  an  even  heat  all  about  the  con- 
tents and  a  hot  cover,  which  will  put  an  entrancing 
brown  on  bread  or  other  edibles  inside. 

To  become  a  cordon  bleu  after  the  Order  of  the 
Dutch  Oven,  requires  long  personal  experience,  and 
the  art  cannot  be  communicated  through  printer's 
ink.  There  are  three  essential  features  however, 
which  when  observed  will  start  anyone  well  on  the 
way: 

First,  be  sure  to  choose  one  the  lid  of  which  has 
an  upturned  rim.  Some  are  lacking  in  this. 

Secondly,  do  not  have  too  much  fire  either  be- 
neath the  oven  or  on  the  lid. 

Third,  be  sure  that  the  lid  is  on  tight,  for  therein 
lies  the  Dutch  oven's  peculiar  virtue,  and  a  leak 
there  is  fatal.  Looseness  of  the  lid  may  be  due  to 
either  of  two  conditions — your  own  carelessness  in 
setting  the  lid  on  the  pot,  or  a  flaw  in  the  manufac- 
ture. To  guard  against  the  latter  contingency  it  is 
prudent  to  try  the  lid  at  the  time  of  purchase,  and 
take  none  that  does  not  fit  snugly.  One  of  the  most 
serious  moments  of  our  outdoor  life  resulted  from 
failure  to  do  this. 

We  had  come  into  possession  of  a  chicken  at  a 
particular  time  when,  surfeited  with  bacon  and 
canned  salmon,  we  craved  fresh  meat,  and  that 
special  chicken,  unlike  John's  of  famous  memory, 
was  really  a  fine  one.  It  was  a  fowl  of  distin- 
guished appearance— a  Plymouth  Eock,  we  thought 
hen,  with  a  comfortable  tendency  to  embon- 
296 


CAMP  COOKERY 

point  unusual  in  the  general  run  of  chickens  known 
to  campers ;  and  our  mouths  watered  as  we  picked 
and  dressed  it. 

Our  old  Dutch  oven,  the  companion  of  many 
trips,  had  become  damaged  on  a  previous  outing, 
and  the  one  we  had  brought  with  us  on  this  occa- 
sion was  new  and  we  had  not  yet  happened  to  have 
used  it.  It  was  got  out  and  scrubbed,  and  the 
chicken,  dismembered  and  divided  into  neat  lengths 
and  morsels,  was  laid  in  and  proved  a  perfect  fit. 
Then  when  water  and  seasoning  and  all  the  accom- 
paniments had  been  added,  the  pot  with  its  cover 
on  was  set  upon  the  bed  of  glowing  coals  and  a 
shovelful  of  embers  placed  on  the  lid.  It  was  a 
famous  sight  for  hungry  eyes. 

It  was  a  frosty  Sunday  morning  of  October  in 
the  San  Gabriel  Mountains  when  this  took  place, 
and  the  Old  Californian  was  with  us.  To  distract 
our  impatient  thoughts  while  the  chicken  cooked,  we 
all  went  for  a  walk;  for  it  is  one  of  the  strong 
points  of  the  Dutch  oven  that  it  does  not  have  to  be 
watched.  You  set  it  on  the  coals  and  it  does  the 
rest. 

Filled  with  high  thoughts  inspired  by  the  au- 
tumnal glories  of  the  mountain  weather,  and  hun- 
grier than  ever,  we  returned,  after  two  hours,  to 
find  the  camp  enveloped  in  a  suspicious  odor. 

"Something  is  burning,"  cried  Sylvia  in  dismay. 

The  Old  Californian  made  a  dash  for  the  Dutch 
oven  and  lifted  the  lid 

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UNDER  THE  SKY  IN  CALIFORNIA 

"Worse  than  that,"  he  groaned,  " something  has 
burned,"  and  he  tipped  up  the  luckless  pot  for  us 
to  see. 

The  interior  was  black  with  the  charred  remains 
of  what  was  once  our  cherished  chicken,  burned  to 
a  finish.  Not  a  shred  of  flesh,  not  a  bit  of  gristle, 
not  a  bone  was  left  in  recognizable  form.  Given 
those  pathetic  cinders,  Cuvier  might  have  guessed 
them  to  be  Gallus  domesticus,  but  never  in  the  world 
could  he  have  proved  it. 

Human  speech  is  notoriously  inadequate  to  cer- 
tain crises  of  life,  and  this  was  one. 

"It  was  the  lid,"  I  can  remember  the  old  man 
murmuring,  as  he  mechanically  picked  up  the  can- 
opener  and  reached  for  a  tin  of  sardines.  "It 
doesn't  fit,"  he  maundered  on.  "See,  it  wobbles," 
jolting  the  pot  and  causing  the  lid  to  seesaw  and 
click. 

The  next  Dutch-oven  we  bought,  we  tested  for 
air-tightness  before  it  left  the  store. 


298 


POSTSCRIPT 

The  preceding  pages  profess  to  give  nothing  more 
than  a  hint  of  the  joy  and  interest  that  attend  travel 
by  unbeaten  ways  in  California,  or  leisurely  resi- 
dence in  the  tourist  belt.  The  State  is  still  so  young 
among  American  Commonwealths  and  her  wide  ter- 
ritories are  still  so  little  settled,  that  the  lineaments 
of  that  virgin  landscape  which  so  delighted  the 
early  pioneers,  are  yet  far  from  obliterated.  One 
may  still  camp  on  Fremont's  trail  in  surroundings 
practically  unchanged  from  those  which  the  great 
Pathfinder  himself  described  sixty-odd  years  ago; 
may  stumble  over  perhaps  the  selfsame  stones  that 
Pio  Pico's  horses  kicked  on  the  Spanish  highroads 
that  lead  across  the  passes  down  to  the  desert  and 
Old  Mexico;  may  tread  in  the  very  footsteps  of  the 
Mission  Fathers  from  San  Diego  to  San  Francisco 
Bay;  may  look  out  from  some  peak  of  the  Sierra's 
crest  upon  forests  as  yet  unscarred  by  the  lumber- 
man and  upon  sage-brush  plains  where  the  red  In- 
dian still  dwells  and  sets  up  his  thatched  wickiup. 

It  is  this  nearness  to  the  fresh  morning  of  ro- 
mance that  gives  a  special  zest  to  life  under  the  sky 
in  California,  while  one's  physical  frame  is  ever 
grateful  for  the  ease  with  which  one  may  come  from 
such  ventures  into  the  wild,  back  to  the  comforts  of 
a  civilized  life,  there  to  talk  it  all  over  with  one's 
friends,  to  rest  and  repair  and— to  go  again. 

299 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 

Fine  schedule:  25  cents  on  first  day  overdue 

50  cents  on  fourth  day  overdue 
One  dollar  on  seventh  day  overdue. 


31  1955 


WRSl      I 
APR    91970  SJ  4 

O  MAT  :J270  -5PM  0« 


LD  21-100m-12,'46(A2012sl6)4120 


TL 


o 


1 


